It was two in the morning when Florence woke up to the sound of knocking at the door. The police stood on the porch, their stern expressions illuminated by the porch light. Her friends had called them, alarmed by her sudden disappearance from the store without a word. She found her parents in the living room, her mother's face a mask of worry and anger. The scolding was swift and sharp—her mother's voice trembled as she demanded to know why Florence had left her friends without telling anyone and how she'd dared return home alone so late.
Yet, amidst the chaos, Florence felt oddly calm. She expected panic, the rush of guilt or fear, but instead, a strange sense of steadiness settled over her. After everything she'd been through with Phillip Phren, her threshold for stress seemed to have shifted. A faint, inexplicable gratitude toward him flickered in her thoughts, though she quickly pushed it aside. The night had been full of surprises, and this newfound resilience was one of them.
The police needed a statement, and to Florence's astonishment, her stutter was nearly absent as she recounted her version of events. She explained how Halloween had always unsettled her, how an overwhelming urge to leave the store and go home had consumed her, compelling her to drop everything.
But her explanation didn't seem to satisfy the officers.
"What doesn't add up," one of them said, his brow furrowed, "is how you left without informing anyone. Under these circumstances, we can't just let this go without a proper conclusion. Especially with how things have been in this town lately."
The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Florence didn't need him to elaborate—everyone knew about the three teenagers who had disappeared over the past three years, the latest case being alarmingly recent.
He turned his attention to her mother.
"Your daughter might benefit from psychotherapeutic treatment," he said, his tone low but firm.
Her mother's reaction was immediate, a flash of indignation and confusion lighting up her face. She turned to Florence, her bewildered gaze demanding answers, as if she were trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.
Florence dropped her eyes to the floor, her teeth sinking into her lip. She wanted to protest, to insist that she was fine, that she didn't need therapy. The officer's suggestion felt invasive, misplaced, even unfair. This wasn't her fault; she hadn't created this situation.
But she said nothing.
The silence felt heavy, filled with the unspoken resignation of knowing her protests wouldn't change anything. What were the odds, she thought bitterly, that out of all the people in her life, it would be a random officer diagnosing her and suggesting she needed help? And from a situation she hadn't even caused, no less.
Becoming a "case file" filled her with a complicated mix of relief and dread. She knew she'd be monitored, which felt both reassuring and suffocating. She couldn't help but wonder what this would mean for Phillip Phren, who'd entered her life in the strangest of ways.
Her hallucinations continued, but she didn't dare mention them to the therapist. She'd been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, which felt like a safe explanation—a shield to hide the darker, more terrifying truth. The hallucinations were worst at night, vivid and horrifying. Different versions of Phillip haunted her: some harmed her, others killed her in grotesque ways. Once, she even saw herself killing him, a vision that left her shaking long after it faded.
Daylight brought its own challenges. At school, she faced Phillip daily, their shared lunch period an uncomfortable reminder of the strange connection they shared. She tried to avoid his gaze, but it was impossible to forget the things she'd experienced with him. The essay they were working on together became a tenuous thread tying them to something ordinary, even as Phillip's flipped out version bubbled over. He muttered and scribbled furiously, clearly determined to get the assignment done, and she found herself steadily drawn to his intensity despite herself.
But hiding the hallucinations was becoming harder. Each episode chipped away at her facade, and she wondered how long she could keep the truth buried. Her nights were filled with terror, her days with tension, and through it all, Phillip lingered in her mind—both a source of fear and inexplicable fascination. The lines between reality and illusion blurred, and Florence knew it was only a matter of time before something broke through the surface, like roots splitting concrete.
A shift was happening. Florence could feel it as clearly as she could see it—the growing distance between her and her friends, and the strange closeness forming between her and Phren. To the displeasure of her friends and the curiosity of her peers and teachers, she and Phren had become a pair in ways that went beyond their shared assignment.
Not only were they frequently spotted writing their project together during lunch, but Phren had also taken to carrying her books on occasion, walking her to classes, and even sitting beside her in lessons. Though she remained apprehensive, her resistance had waned. Somewhere along the way, she had stopped protesting his quiet persistence. Instead, she let the connection unfold, carried forward by forces she didn't fully understand but had stopped fighting against.
Her anxiety treatment, too, had started to take effect, making it easier to be around him. The tremors of fear she once felt had dulled, replaced by an unsettling calm she couldn't quite explain.
Eventually, her friends—Cody, Ginger, Thomas, and Petunia—decided they couldn't ignore it any longer. They planned to confront her, determined to uncover what was really going on between her and Phren.
As Florence exited Biology class, she froze at the sight of her friends waiting by her locker. Her stomach twisted, and for a moment, she considered slipping away. But before she could turn, Ginger grabbed her arm, her grip firm but gentle.
"Flaky, stop avoiding us, please," Ginger said softly, worry etched in her gray eyes. "We're just trying to help you."
Florence looked at the four of them, all wearing matching expressions of concern. With a heavy sigh, she relented and faced Ginger directly.
"Ginge, I am getting help," she said firmly, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice. "I'm taking treatment for my anxiety now. I can even speak normally, without stuttering. I never thought I'd get to this point."
She offered a small, hopeful smile, and for a moment, the tension among her friends seemed to ease. Cody placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"That's amazing, Flakes," he said, though his smile faltered slightly. He exchanged a cautious look with Ginger before turning back to her. "But… that's not what we're worried about. He's taking you away from us." He spoke accusingly, brow furrowed.
Her stomach tightened at his words, the mention of him pulling her back into the conversation she'd been dreading for weeks.
In truth, she and Phren hadn't spent any time together outside of school since that unsettling day. They were writing the Biology assignment together, sure, and he followed her around more often than she was comfortable with, but that was the extent of it. Still, her distance from her friends had grown—naturally, she thought—as her desire to participate in their chaotic outings diminished. Parties, games, and idle chatter no longer held the same appeal.
With her treatment, other changes had come as well: a newfound sense of autonomy, a quiet desire to define her own path. Yet she realized she'd been selfish to drift away without explanation. She could still make time for them. She owed them that.
"He's just lonely," she said finally, her voice calm but tinged with weariness.
The words only sparked more frustration.
"But of course he's lonely!" Petunia snapped, crossing her arms indignant. "He makes it impossible for anyone to stand being around him!"
A flicker of anger ignited within Florence, surprising her with its intensity. Spending time with Phren had softened her perspective, made her more empathetic to his struggles—though she wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing. She hadn't expected to find herself defending him, yet here she was.
"Look, he's difficult, I know," she said sharply, trying to halt Petunia's protests. She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. She had no intention of revealing what little she knew about Phren's personal battles. "But he's trying to be better. I don't think he wants to be like that."
Her friends stared at her, incredulous, as though she'd just confessed to harboring a deep secret.
She exhaled, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I need to go," she muttered, excusing herself before they could argue further.
As she walked away, their confused and disappointed expressions lingered in her mind, stirring an uneasy mix of guilt and defiance.
Over the next few days, Florence began spending time with her friends again, though her presence in their group was sporadic. Nathan was conspicuously absent during these reunions, having become a rare sight around her. By now, he had fully teamed up with the Smuggler twins, forming a solid and disruptive trio.
The peak of their antics came when they printed and distributed hundreds of flyers around the school, all targeting her and Phillip.
The flyers bore the headline: "Phillip Phren's New Accomplice" in bold, with a large photo of Florence smiling sheepishly underneath.
At first, Florence was mortified. The sheer audacity of it made her blood boil. But after a couple of days, her emotions settled, and she found she couldn't be bothered anymore. Let them talk. The rumors, after all, only grew wilder with time—an exaggerated reaction to the unprecedented reality that Phillip Phren, of all people, seemingly had a friend.
Nathan and the twins were eventually caught and given detention, not so much for the insinuations in their flyers, but for littering the school with them.
Even the teachers couldn't entirely hide their intrigue. The situation was too unusual to simply ignore.
"Florence," Pop called out to her after class, his voice warm but tinged with a noticeable edge. She paused mid-step, clutching her books tightly to her chest. Around her, students flowed out of the classroom in small clusters, some glancing furtively in her direction before quickly looking away.
"Yes, sir?" she replied cautiously, her tone measured.
Pop waited until the hallway had mostly cleared before he continued. "How's the assignment going with Mr. Phren?" His question was casual on the surface, but there was a deeper current beneath his words—one she couldn't ignore.
Florence hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "It's... coming along," she said finally, her voice steady but guarded. She felt his gaze settle on her, both curious and searching.
"And how are you finding it?" he asked, folding his arms. The question, though simple, felt loaded.
Florence bit the inside of her cheek, unsure how much to reveal. "It's fine. He's—" she hesitated, searching for the right words. "He's been... helpful. A bit rough around the edges, but he's trying."
Pop raised a brow at that, a small smile flickering on his face. "Rough around the edges is putting it kindly," he said in an understatement. Then, softening further, he added, "I trust you're handling yourself okay? If anything feels off, you know you can come to me, right?"
Florence blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. When she had tried to change partners a while back, Pop had been unyielding about the rule. Her fear of Phillip back then hadn't seemed to carry much weight in his eyes. Now, however, it seemed her growing connection with Phillip had become a greater concern than the unease she'd expressed before.
"I... I'm fine, really," she said, recovering quickly. "He's been civil. I think he's trying to make this work, too."
Pop's smile lingered, but there was something guarded behind it. "Good. That's good to hear," he said, though his words felt more reflexive than genuine.
As she walked away, she couldn't shake the feeling that her connection with Phillip had set her on a path others were quietly and constantly scrutinizing, even as she struggled to figure it out for herself.
The first meaningful and positive interaction between her and Phillip happened two weeks later, after they had finally completed their essay. They were sitting in the far corner of the cafeteria, away from prying eyes. By then, most of the students had lost interest in their unlikely partnership, something Florence was immensely grateful for. This moment felt too personal, to be under anyone else's scrutiny.
From the outside, it might have seemed like an ordinary, uneventful exchange. But to Florence, it was different. For the first time, she felt a sense of closeness to Phillip—a connection that wasn't clouded by fear or tension. He wasn't the erratic, unpredictable version of himself at that moment. Instead, he was calm. Without that constant edge of fear, she could finally allow herself to appreciate this rare moment between them.
They both smiled—a real, genuine smile. It was an unspoken acknowledgment of their shared effort, and it felt… good.
"Well, Thorn…" Phillip began, his voice unusually honest and devoid of sarcasm. "This is it. Our last homework together." His tone carried a finality that tugged at something inside her.
Florence felt a pang of regret at his words, but she quickly masked it, not wanting to betray her feelings. She nodded quietly. "I guess it is," she replied, her voice softer than she intended.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. There was something unspoken hanging in the air, a mutual understanding that neither of them dared to put into words. Florence realized with a quiet ache that she didn't want this to be the end—not completely. And, judging by the lingering intensity in Phillip's gaze, she sensed he felt the same way.
His green eyes studied her, searching for something she couldn't quite name. It was uncomfortable, but also oddly grounding. She didn't know how long they sat there like that, caught in the balance of something new and uncertain.
Then the bell rang, shattering the moment. The spell between them broke, and Florence blinked, nodding at him as if to acknowledge their shared silence. She gathered the essay without a word and later presented it to Pop.
They got the highest score, something Florence wasn't surprised by. Most of the brilliance in the essay had been Phillip's doing. She had been his medium only.
For once, she didn't feel overshadowed. Instead, she felt like they had truly worked together, and that—more than the grade—meant something to her.
…
Phillip didn't stop following her around. If anything, his presence in her life only grew more constant, to the point where it frightened her friends. They no longer dared to comment openly, and, perhaps out of some unspoken agreement, Phillip refrained from addressing their discomfort or intruding on the rare outings she still had with them. It was as though she were leading a double life—one where she tried to maintain normalcy with her friends, and another where Phillip loomed like an unpredictable shadow.
Yet, the issue of Phillip's other persona remained. Whenever he flipped, her fear surged, and all she could think about was getting away from him. It was impossible to ignore the strain it placed on her. She could see that he was trying—truly trying—to hold himself together when he was with her. But his instability seemed to seep into her, quietly fuelling her own disturbed mental state with each passing day.
What made it harder was that Phillip seemed oblivious to this side of her—for a time, at least.
The first time Phillip realized something was wrong was during lunch in the cafeteria. Florence had started sitting with him more often, and, as usual, he'd gone to grab food for both of them. When he returned, however, he found her staring blankly into space, her eyes unfocused and distant. She wasn't seeing him—or anything, it seemed. Her lips moved, forming barely audible words that were incoherent and disconnected from the moment.
Concern flickered across his face as he set the trays down. This time, instead of taking his usual seat across from her, he slid into the chair beside her.
"Thorn," he said softly, his tone uncharacteristically careful. When she didn't react, he leaned in, his wide eyes scanning her face for some sign of recognition. Still, she continued to mumble, as if lost in another world.
Tentatively, Phillip reached out, his hand coming to rest gently at the back of her head, his palm against the tangle of her wild red hair. It was a subtle, steadying gesture, one she never would have expected from him.
"Thorn," he repeated, sharper this time, though his voice remained low to avoid drawing attention.
The sound broke through her reverie like a splash of cold water. Florence blinked, her unfocused gaze snapping to life as she looked around in a sudden panic. She finally landed on him, confusion etched across her face.
Then she felt his hand—calm, steady, and so unlike the chaotic, unpredictable way his "other self" usually touched her. The realization hit her like a shockwave, and she inhaled sharply.
"I have to go," she mumbled, her voice distant and shaky.
It was happening again—the second daytime hallucination in as many weeks. The last time had been during class, and it had left her rattled for days. She fumbled for her backpack, hastily slinging it over her shoulder before bolting from the cafeteria.
She didn't look back, ignoring the stares of curious onlookers. All she wanted was to be alone, to escape the shame and confusion swirling inside her.
Naturally, Phillip didn't let her leave so easily.
He caught up with her just around the corner of the school, where the corridors gradually led into a more secluded area, shielded from curious eyes. The absence of witnesses was at once a release and a trap, an unsettling freedom that seemed to linger in the air like an unspoken promise.
Phillip reached forward, pulling her toward him with a firm motion—one that was beginning to feel all too familiar between them. Yet, this time, Florence didn't resist. Instead, she seemed to surrender, her shoulders drooping under his touch, her gaze fixated on the ground to avoid meeting the intensity of his penetrating stare.
"Have you talked to anyone about this?" he asked, his voice sharp and direct, severing the tension that hung thick between them.
The question hit her with the force of an unexpected blow, sending a shock through her system. The fact that Phillip—of all people—had unearthed her most hidden struggle, her most guarded secret, was ironic. And the weight of that revelation was compounded by the fact that it was, in part, his fault.
Her body stiffened, a rush of heat flooding her face as indignation simmered beneath her skin. He, of all people, wasn't exactly a model of stability himself. Her inner voice whispered that she had never once dared confront him about his own issues, but logic swiftly intervened: It was her lack of courage that had kept her quiet. She just wished her logic would just shut up.
With an irritated twist of her body, she attempted to shake his hands from her shoulders, but his hold remained steadfast—not aggressive, but unrelenting.
"I—I'd rather not talk about it," she stammered, the words faltering. The stutter, which had mostly faded in recent weeks, returned with full force, a clear indication of how rattled she truly was.
Phillip's gaze sharpened, his brow furrowing as if he might flip out. But no—he simply stood there, his expression a mix of calm detachment and something unreadable, his eyes never leaving her face. For a moment, she braced herself for him to push her further, to demand answers, but instead, his hands slipped away from her shoulders. He exhaled deeply, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, his gaze softened, revealing a vulnerability she hadn't expected.
"I'm not the one to tell you to seek help," he confessed quietly, his voice softer than usual, laced with discomfort. His words caught her completely off guard. She blinked, taken aback by the unexpected rawness in his tone.
"In case you haven't noticed," he continued, his gaze momentarily dropping to the floor, "I'm battling my own demons."
The honesty of his words hung between them, a strange blend of candor and unease. Florence stood frozen, unsure of how to respond, her mind racing to process the shift in his demeanor. She simply stared at him, as if seeing him in a new light.
"But if you ever need a friend," he added, his gaze intense, his voice steady, "I'll be here. I'll try my best."
She stood there, her breath caught in her throat, her heart racing. Something inside her stirred—a feeling that began to rise in her chest, something fierce that she couldn't name. She knew, with a deep certainty, that what she was about to do was madness. But for once, she shut off the voice of reason. With a steadiness she barely recognized in herself, she extended her hand and placed it in his much larger one. He didn't pull away. Instead, he looked down at their hands, his expression unreadable, before slowly raising his gaze back to her face.
For a long moment, he studied her, a quiet curiosity flickering in his eyes. She couldn't help but wonder what he saw in her now. The Florence of only a few weeks ago would never have done this. But now... now, she felt different, changed by his presence in her life.
Nothing is the same anymore, her mind whispered, before she pushed it aside, standing on her toes, reaching for the back of his neck, and pressing her lips to his.