I come to my senses and roll over on one side, cuddling the bed sheet underneath my chin. The warmth and comfort of my bed in the morning is one of my favourite things in life and I probably would have stayed there for a long time had I not heard a stifling yawn from the other side of my room. Once the blurriness of the light clears from my eyes, I see my next door neighbour, Stiles, leaning on his crossed arms acting as a pillow on my wooden desk.
For a second, my insides panic and I wonder why he's here… and then it hits me and the cosiness of my bed disappears like jumping into the cold sea.
"Stiles?" I whisper, clambering out of bed. Quickly, I pull on a maroon hoodie from off my floor that gracefully clashes with my ginger hair and tiptoe over to poke his cheek lightly, "Stiles?"
"Woah!" His eyes shoot open and his arms uncross suddenly, causing him to smack his head on the hard surface, "Oh my god- you scared me!"
"Morning sunshine," I lean into my hip and cross my arms, trying not to laugh as he rubs his head confused, "We you not supposed to be looking after me?"
Stiles blinks, looking up at the ceiling, "…Yeah… I must have fallen asleep."
"No way, really?"

But all the joking is put aside as Stiles clambers off his makeshift sleeping post and surveys my room. The canvas on my easel is as blank and untouched as the brushes that lie next to it.
"M-maybe no one else is going to get hurt?" I ask, naively, not really believing it myself.
We start to look around my room, in my school books, on bits of paper lying about, for any sign of a new drawing but finds nothing.
"It doesn't happen every night though, does it?" Stiles wonders, running his forefinger and thumb along his jawline.
"Not that I know of."
"I would have thought, being a full moon last night…"

His mention of the full moon sets my stomach on edge. When I had arrived home last night to find Stiles sat on my doorstep, we went to my room and he told me everything. I mean, everything. At first, I thought it was just Stiles, being Stiles and messing around with me, but everything he said fitted with what I had witnessed; Scott getting bitten, his insane lacrosse abilities, the events of the party last night… I think, with my newfound weird future telling drawing ability scaring the crap out of me, I was thankful so any explanation, no matter how abnormal or unrealistic. Stiles told me about Derek, who I had met earlier that night, and his family – how their house burnt down and how Derek is trying to find this 'alpha' who apparently murdered the girl in the woods. It took me a while, but I eventually went to sleep feeling like my brain had been frazzled.
"So, Scott and Derek are the only two werewolves then?" I had questioned Stiles.
"And the alpha," he had responded.
"And who's that? When he's not, you know, out murdering girls in the woods?"
"…We don't know."
"…Right. And it's only on the full moon that Scott changes?"
Stiles had shaken his head, "No. Anytime his heart rate gets raised, like he gets angry or he plays lacrosse or he-"
"-dances with Allison," I finished for him, remember that she was his date to the party. "But what's that got to do with me? I haven't got bitten by anything. Not that I know of…" I had said defensively.
To that, Stiles had no answer. He wondered if there were other myths that were real, not just werewolves, but a whole collection of beasts and legends out there. That made me want to throw up so we had called it a night then and Stiles had sat in my chair, keeping an eye out for any strange behaviour from the unconscious version of me.

Apparently there wasn't. We couldn't say for certain because Stiles fell asleep but there was no evidence in my room.

So we went downstairs and I made us both toast and coffee. Stiles hopped up onto the breakfast bar and swung his legs, fidgeting as usual.
"So Scott- he's going to have to learn to keep a lid on his werewolf-y change, right? He can't just keep popping out claws every lacrosse game or every time he kisses a girl?" I query, fetching the milk from the fridge.
"Yeah, Derek told him that needs to find an anchor-" Stiles started to tell me, but he was interrupted by my mother's scream.

Without another word, the both of us pelted upstairs and towards the bathroom, where we found my Mom stood in the doorway, toothbrush in hand. Her other hand was clutching at her short red hair, tufting up between her pale fingers.
"Mom? What's-?" But before I could finish, my eyes moved past her and into the room. The large mirror above the sink was plastered in colour and familiar quick brush strokes. Acrylic paint was flaking off in patches, leaving an eerie reflection underneath an already disturbing scene. Someone was dead. In the school bus. Not dead- more like ripped to shreds. Although the bright yellow bus covered most of the frame, to my horror, the most prominent colour in the painting was red. Blood drenched the seats and oozed over the floor and dripped off the ceiling. Everywhere.
I felt Stiles's hand place on my shoulder.
"E-Emily, what is this?!" Mom demanded to know, turning to stare at me, wild eyed.
I swallowed hard and tried to tear my eyes off the scene.
"I-identity," was the first word that tumbled out of my dry mouth.
"What?" She asked crazily, raising her eyebrows.
"M-my art project, I-identity. It's, um, supposed to be like, um, your reflection layered with your worst nightmare. So, um, this is Stiles's worst nightmare and we took some pictures of his reflection in the gaps where there is not paint."
My Mom visibly relaxed and exhaled deeply. She narrowed her green eyes at me and shook the toothbrush in her hand, "Well, Emily, it would have been nice to have been told and not have the living daylights scared out of me before I'm even awake yet! Get it cleared off please, I need to get ready and don't want to look at a torture scene while I'm doing so." She scolded, running her eyes over mine and Stiles's relieved expressions.

Once she was gone, I leant against the doorframe and pushed the hair from my face, "Holy crap…
"That was smooth," Stiles clapped my arm and stepped over me into the bathroom to inspect the painting closer.
"What's the damage?"
Stiles pulls out his phone and takes a couple of snapshots, "Bad... You've not got work today have you?"
"No, just tomorrow. Why?"
Stiles turns to me and shoves his hands in his pockets, sighing, "Because I think we need to do some experimenting."

Once we had cleared away the mirror with soap, water and a lot of elbow grease, Stiles called Scott over, and by midday the three of us were sat in my room with the curtains shut and door locked. Seeing Scott in person since finding out about his werewolf issue wasn't as weird as I thought it would be. I imagined him to be bursting out teeth and claws at any minute, whereas in reality, he was the same old Scott. The same boy who helped me throw a lacrosse ball around Stiles's backyard when we were little. And the same boy who was now helping Stiles collect ideas on how to get me to draw the future.

We tried just getting me to doodle anything of the top of my mind, but nothing had the same feel. We tried getting me to meditate and clear my mind, but all I could think of was how stupid I looked. We tried breathing exercises, actual exercise, yoga, calming music- until I could take it no more.

"Stop! Just stop!" I yelled, falling out of the headstand that had been Stiles's nonsensical idea. I scrambled to my feet and wiped my hands on my thighs. "Nothing is working, okay!" I cried out angrily, "We've been here for hours and I haven't done anything! Maybe it only works when I'm asleep? Have either of you thought of that!"
The two idiotic boys pulled a matching grimace.
Scott exchanged a glance with Stiles and offered, "Well, what if it's like me trying to keep my change under control? You might just need practice? Or-"
"An anchor!" Stiles cried out, speeding towards me. He catches my shoulders and shoves me into my desk chair. Placing a blank piece of paper on the desk and repeats in a voice full of realisation, "An anchor. If it works for Scott and Derek, it might work for you!"
I raised my eyebrows at him, "You do know that I'm not a werewolf," I reminded, "And what even is an anchor?"
"It's like, something that keeps you grounded. Something real, like a person or a moment or a feeling…" Scott explained, walking round to kneel beside me at the desk. Stiles leant over my shoulder and shoved a biro into my hand.
"So I just think of my anchor?" I asked, hesitantly, fiddling with the pen.
"Yup. Go." Stiles assured me, squeezing my shoulder.

I closed my eyes for a minute and slowed down my breathing. My anchor… Jane flashed into my mind for a moment and hovered there. My imaginary Jane turned her back on me and scowled, her face full of resentment. I push her back. I think of Sarah and Summer, but they were both seem too far away. My parents drifted to the front of my mind. I love them both so much, but I had a strong feeling that I should keep them separate from all of this weird stuff.

A person, a moment, a feeling.

I know what I want to think of. But I was scared, so scared. My heart races and the memory forces itself to be relived: Isaac's warm body embracing mine, his gentle hand holding mine, his soft voice whispering in my ear, his breath tickling my face. I let my imagination run with me and twist the ending of my story. What if… What if: I don't turn my head and Isaac's face continues to lower. He tilts my chin up with one hand and our mixture of green and blue eyes melt together. A dark blonde curl falls over one eye and I brush it away tenderly. My heart pounds against my ribs and electricity crackles in the space closing between our lips. In my dream, I close my eyes and trace my fingertips around the back of his neck, waiting for Isaac's kiss.

"It's working!"

An irritating voice brings me around sharply and my eyes shoot open.
"Stiles!" I cry out, more than annoyed that he interrupted my pretend kiss with Isaac. We had been so close! The longing feeling dissolves quickly when I notice my piece of paper. Oh crap. I had started sketching out a pane of glass being smashed by an animalistic figure jumping through it. I must have been working on the face of the creature when Stiles interrupted me, because you couldn't make it out thanks to the dark thick scribbles I had made.

We were all silent, marvelling at what we had just figured out. I have an anchor. My anchor is Isaac.
"…Do you think that's the alpha?" Scott whispered at my side. His hand reached out and traced the harsh scribbles over his face.
"Could be…" I replied, "Could be."

…

At work on Sunday, clumsy and distracted couldn't even describe how I was acting – it was so much worse. My thoughts were flitting between the fact that actual werewolves were running about Beacon Hills, to me being actually able to predict the future, to Isaac. He hadn't been in contact at all over the weekend and I had started to worry… but then again, his Dad had probably just grounded him or something for being a tiny bit late on Friday night. That didn't mean that I wasn't missing him. I had to remind myself a good few times that Isaac and I had only started to get to know each other and he probably wasn't spending his whole weekend worrying if I was thinking about him, like I was doing. Stop it, Emily!

On Monday morning, I rang Jane three times before giving up and driving to school without her. She never picked up once, so I figured that she still wasn't speaking to me. Only a week of school had passed and Jane was already mad at me. That lasted long.

When I arrived at the school parking lot, I found myself going at about 2 miles an hour behind Jackson's Porsche and a long queue of cars wanting to get in.
"Idiot!" I cried, hitting my steering wheel. It took me about 10 minutes to squeeze into a space because the far half of the parking lot had been cordoned off, but I couldn't see why. My already tested mood was slowly slipping downhill.
I grabbed my bag and my usual flask of coffee and ran towards the double doors, knowing that I had about 10 seconds before my appearance would be marked late by Harris. Thankfully, my almost-lateness meant I didn't have to awkwardly bump into Jane.

I skidded into the room just as the bell rang and my eyes fell on Isaac, sitting on his stool, picking at his fingers nervously, head down, trying not to be noticed. A cold shiver rushes down me. After a whole weekend of (probably) exaggerating things in my head, I was about to get disappointed.
Summer glances my way as I hurry over to my seat and I try to smile coolly at her, but instead, I'm sure my face twists in an awkward and uncomfortable way because she simply raises her eyebrows and gives me a frozen smile in return.

Mr. Harris strolls in to the room. I drop my bag and whisper, "Hi," to Isaac. I get a small smile back that doesn't quite look real and I immediately feel like putting my head in my hands.
"Was your Dad alright about you being late?" I ask in a hushed undertone as I fetch my notes out.
Isaac nods once.
Well that really clears it up, thanks, I think to myself sarcastically.

Harris surveys all of us through his thin rimmed glasses and opens his mouth to tell us to shut up or something of the like. He doesn't get to speak though, because instead, a girl sat by the window lets out a shriek and points outside.
Everyone hurries over curiously, despite Harris's protests.
"They've found him!" Someone hushes at their friend.
Found who. Found who.
"Found who?" My voice finds itself. I scramble to the far window away from the crowd and everything begins to run in slow motion.

I watch from afar as Stiles's Dad, the Sheriff, paces away from the yellow school bus in the cordoned off part of the parking lot. The yellow bus. There were blood splatters on the windscreen. Red and yellow mix together in a blur and form a flashing ambulance sign. Jane's Mom, a paramedic, is pushing a stretcher towards the ambulance. On it lays a mutilated old man. A blood covered man. A crimson mess of a human being.
"It's the bus driver!" I hear a voice in the class say.
I could have done something. I could have told someone. I knew this was going to happen. I did nothing. I killed him. I killed the bus driver. Oh my god. My face is burning. My legs are shaking.
Suddenly, the old man sits up and lets out a blood curdling scream that pierces through the very heart of me. But I think I imagine it. Because he's dead. He must be. He's dead. And I knew it would happen.

The scene dissolves as I fall away from the window. A boy calls my name. But it can't be Isaac, because I made us up in my head. He can't like someone who let a murder happen.

He can't like me.

I'm guilty.

A.N.
Yes! New chapter :D I've been at work loads the past two days so I stayed up late to get this out, so I'm sorry if there are awful bits because I need sleep.
Want to say thank you to whatsunderneath's and sillygame's reviews for making me smile loads and giving me more drive to get this chapter out! You're awesome!
Hope you are all still enjoying this, I thought it'd be nice to get Scott and Stiles involved more. Everything is changing now, dun dun dunnnn… :') Most likely I'll put the next chapter up in about 2 days.