RACHEL

It's been building for a while now, creeping in quietly. We try to be normal. Laugh, joke, flirt like we're just ordinary kids. But even when I try, I can feel it—the weight. The pull. The Yeerks don't let everyday life get in their way. They don't get distracted by a cute guy, no matter how charming he is, how funny, or how good he looks when he smiles. Not even when he makes you feel things you never thought you'd feel.

But us? We get distracted. A smile, a day off, a math test—they can all make us forget for a moment that we're in the middle of a war. That we're carrying something we can't put down, even if we pretend we can.

I've been feeling it more and more lately—a restlessness, a tension. Some days, I feel more at home on a battlefield than in my own living room. I'll be sitting at the dinner table with Mom and my sisters, eating pizza and catching up—and all I can think is, this can't be my life. My life is blood, pain, and fight. Not this world of smiles and small talk.

I don't even know what's real anymore. Is it flirting half-heartedly with Marco, or half-listening to Cassie talk about a new animal she's rehabilitating? Or is it the way my grizzly bear claws can slice through flesh and bone, the way my jaws can tear through the strongest of the Yeerk's controllers like they're made of paper?

Is real life playing board games with my family, eating too many snacks, pretending to laugh at their jokes? Or is it when I morph into an elephant, feeling the crunch of a Hork-Bajir's skull beneath my foot as I charge through enemy lines, fearless and unstoppable?

Is it homework and studying and focusing on my future? Or is it the way I can't stop thinking about the next mission, the next time I can actually do something that matters?

I try to shove those thoughts away. I try to smile, to play along, to be normal. When Marco jokes around, I laugh, even though it feels fake sometimes. When Cassie talks about a new animal she's helping, I nod and listen, pretending like I'm invested, pretending like everything's fine. It's easier that way, to keep myself busy, to focus on something that isn't the war.

Sometimes, I can push it down. I can pretend. I can make myself forget for a little while. But the restlessness is always there, just under the surface. A low hum that I try to ignore, even as I keep myself busy.

Mission after mission. They keep coming, and I actually look forward to them now. I'm excited for the next fight, and listless when there isn't one. It's like every day between battles is just… filler. Days bleed together, and I'm not sure which parts of my life are supposed to be real. And when I do manage to sit still, it feels wrong, like I'm wasting time, as if the fight's out there happening without me. When there's no battle, there's no purpose.

I've started to feel numb to the bloodshed. That flicker of guilt I used to feel after hurting someone—even if they were a Controller, even if it was to protect myself or save one of the others—it's gone. Every fight used to leave a mark on my conscience. Somewhere along the way, that part of me got buried beneath layers of violence, blood, and instinct. Now, it's just… numbness. Now, I can't stop thinking about the next mission, the next time I can actually do something, be useful, be a weapon.

My hands, my claws—they're stained with blood, and they do what's necessary. I don't flinch anymore.

I go to bed thinking about the war, replaying each mission until sleep finally drags me under. And the moment I wake up, I'm back to it—running tactics in my head, preparing for the next battle. I can't stop, and I don't want to.

I know my friends are worried, but if they knew… if they really knew what was happening in my head, they'd worry more. They'd see this darkness I can't shake. They'd see that this war isn't just a part of my life—it is my life. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there, in the middle of it all. The sound of claws scraping, the sight of blood, the weight of each brutal decision. It's all burned into my mind, an endless replay.

I tell myself it's normal. That I'm just tired, just stressed. That if I keep moving, keep pushing, I won't have time to think about it. And for a while, that works. I'm busy. I'm distracted. I can pretend like the war isn't out there waiting for me, like the world hasn't shifted beneath my feet.

I don't feel like myself anymore. It's like I'm watching myself from a distance, like I'm on the outside, trying to play a part that doesn't fit. I keep pretending it's fine. I keep myself distracted. But when the distractions stop, it's there again. The quiet. The weight of everything I've been pushing away. The feeling that somewhere along the way, I stopped being the person I was. The old Rachel is gone. And in her place? A soldier. A weapon.

I don't know when it happened. But I know it's too late to turn back. I can't stop now. Not when I've come this far. The war is my life now. It's all I know. And if I stop to feel anything… I don't know what would happen. I don't know if I could handle it. And if I told them that, if they saw how far down this path I've gone… they'd want to help. But the truth is, I don't want their help.

Because if I stopped, if I actually let myself feel everything that's been building up, I don't know what I'd find underneath all the armor.