Chapter 7: Echoes in the Shadows

Stiles:

Lying here, staring at the ceiling, my mind is a chaotic storm that refuses to settle. Andrew swoops in, saves the day like some brooding, shadow-cloaked knight, and then vanishes into thin air. Seriously, what is he—Beacon Hills' very own moody Batman? Sure, he saved my life, which is great, but then he's gone before I can even crack a joke, before I can figure out what to say or how to bridge the chasm that's grown between us.

And the kicker? Scott and Lydia knew. They knew he was back and kept it from me like some classified operation. It stings—no, it burns—to know they've been talking to him while I've been left in the dark. A part of me wants to be angry, to demand answers, but mostly, I just feel... left out, like I don't matter in the story of my own life.

But it's not just that he disappeared. It's not just that they hid it. It's the way his absence feels like a black hole, sucking all the light and warmth out of the air. It's the way my chest aches, this dull, relentless throb that refuses to go away. Andrew was so close, right there, within reach—and yet he wasn't. He hasn't been for a long time. I just didn't realize how much it would hurt to see him again, only to lose him all over.

I keep replaying it in my head, trying to pinpoint the moment everything went wrong. What did I do to push him so far away? Why, even now, after he's saved me, does he still feel so unreachable? He won't talk to me, won't look at me the way he used to, and it's killing me. The distance between us isn't just physical—it's a wall, thick and unyielding, and I don't know how to tear it down. All I know is that I want to. More than anything.

The silence of the night only makes it worse. It amplifies the ache in my chest, turning it into a steady drumbeat of longing and regret. I can still see him, clear as day—the way he looked at me for that brief second, like he was torn between staying and running. I should've grabbed him, pulled him close, and told him everything. Told him what's been staring me in the face all along: that I don't just miss him as a friend. That I've never wanted anyone the way I want him.

But I didn't. And now I'm lying here, drowning in the what-ifs and could-have-beens, wondering if it's already too late.

There was something there, wasn't there? Back when we were close, before everything got so complicated. I wasn't imagining it—the connection, the way he always seemed to understand me better than anyone else. But now? Now I'm left clutching at fragments, chasing shadows of memories that feel just out of reach. It's maddening, wanting someone who keeps himself so far away, who treats being close to me like it's some kind of punishment.

And the worst part? I don't even blame him. Not really. I think he's scared—just like I am. Scared of what this is, of what it could be. But fear doesn't stop the ache. Fear doesn't fill the hollow space he left behind.

I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes against the stark emptiness of the room. All I want to do is see him again, to reach for him and never let him go. To tell him what I should've said a long time ago: that he's not just someone I care about. He's everything. He always has been. And if I ever get the chance, I won't let him walk away again.

For now, though, all I have is the silence—and the unbearable ache of wanting someone who feels so close yet so far away.

Andrew:

The revelation chilled me, like a cold hand gripping the back of my neck, pulling me deeper into a narrative far more intricate than any of us had anticipated. The meeting at Derek's had started as a way to unravel the mysteries surrounding Deputy Parrish's miraculous survival, but the conversation shifted sharply when Lydia revealed the connection between her grandmother and Meredith from Eichen House.

Lydia's discovery—that her own family was tied to the creation of the dead pool—sent ripples through the room. We all felt it, the weight of history pressing down on us, linking past sins to the present chaos in ways none of us had seen coming. The web was wider than we thought, and it was pulling us all into its grasp.

Then, as if fate couldn't twist the knife any deeper, we learned that my name was one of the cipher keys on the dead pool list. It was like someone had punched me in the gut. The list wasn't just some abstract thing anymore. My name—my death—was intertwined with it. If a banshee created that list, then the implications for my future felt… inevitable. Chilling.

As we discussed our next steps, the decision to bring Deputy Parrish into our world of supernatural danger felt necessary. The stakes were higher than ever, and if we were going to navigate this, we needed everyone on board. Lydia's revelations kept coming, each one adding a layer to the mystery. Her grandmother, Lorraine, had set things in motion long before we even knew this world existed, and now we were paying the price.

"I heard Stiles is looking for you, Andrew," Lydia's voice sliced through my thoughts, sharp and deliberate. Her words hung in the air between us, weighted with the kind of insight only Lydia possessed. "He's hurt. Confused. He keeps asking what he's done wrong."

The image of Stiles sitting outside my old house in his Jeep flashed through my mind, vivid and unrelenting. Night after night, headlights dimmed, but the engine quietly idling as he waited for something—anything—that would draw me out. The look on his face when he finally left each night, etched with frustration and sadness, haunted me more than I cared to admit. I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. "I know, Lydia. I've seen him there. It's not that he's done anything wrong. It's just… complicated."

Lydia's arms crossed, and her sharp green eyes pinned me where I stood. Her expression was both knowing and unyielding, a force of nature unto itself. "Complicated how?" she pressed, her tone deceptively soft, though her question landed like a blow. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're avoiding him. And it's tearing him apart."

I flinched at her words, but she wasn't wrong. I had been avoiding him, dodging his silent pleas, shutting him out because I couldn't trust myself to face him. Not when I knew what he wanted—what he thought he wanted—and what I could never have. "I'm scared, Lydia," I confessed, my voice low and trembling. "I'm scared of letting him in again, of thinking it could be different this time. I don't know how to sit across from him and pretend I can just be his friend when…" My words faltered, the truth too raw to finish. I looked away, my hands clenched at my sides. "It hurts too much to want more, knowing he doesn't."

Lydia tilted her head, her expression softening, though her determination didn't waver. "And you think keeping him at arm's length is easier for either of you? Andrew, he's out there every night, waiting for you, because he's trying to fix this. He misses you. Not just as his friend, but as someone he can't move on from. That's not something you can ignore forever."

Her words sent a jolt through me, one I tried desperately to tamp down. "He misses the way things used to be," I argued, though my voice cracked under the strain. "He wants us to go back to being best friends. But I can't—I can't do that, Lydia. Not when every second I'm around him, all I want is more. And he can't give me that."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her patience clearly thinning, though her tone remained calm. "Andrew, has it ever crossed your mind that he doesn't just want things to go back to how they were? That maybe he's out there because he's as scared as you are, but he's still showing up, waiting for you to meet him halfway?"

I stared at her, the words sinking in like stones in deep water. Could she be right? The thought was almost unbearable—hope was a dangerous thing, and I'd buried mine a long time ago. "I don't think I can do this, Lydia," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "What if I'm wrong? What if it's not what I think, and I end up breaking myself all over again?"

Her gaze softened, and she placed a hand gently on my arm, grounding me. "Andrew, you're already breaking. The only difference is that you're doing it alone. Stiles doesn't want to be just friends any more than you do. You two are just too stubborn—or too scared—to admit it to each other. And if you wait too long, you might lose the chance to figure it out."

Her words settled over me like a heavy blanket, warm but suffocating. I raked a hand through my hair, my heart a tangle of fear and longing. "I care about him, Lydia," I admitted, my voice thick with emotion. "More than I've ever cared about anyone. But I don't know how to face him without falling apart."

"Start by being honest," she said simply, her voice steady but kind. "That's all he's ever wanted from you. And it's the one thing that could finally make this easier for both of you."

The truth of her words hit me like a tidal wave, washing away the fragile walls I'd built to protect myself. Lydia always saw things more clearly than I did, cutting through the fog of my fears and doubts like a beacon. I nodded slowly, the weight of my feelings pressing down on me. "You're right," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll talk to him."

"Do it soon, Andrew," she urged, her tone firm but gentle. "Because no matter how patient he is, even Stiles has his limits. And he deserves to know where you stand."

As she left, her words lingered in the stillness, a reminder that time wasn't on my side. I stood there for a long moment, staring out the window at the distant horizon. Stiles' face hovered in my mind, his eyes filled with questions I hadn't yet answered. Lydia was right—I owed him the truth, even if it terrified me. And maybe, just maybe, I owed it to myself to stop running from the one person I couldn't let go.

Navigating the dim corridors of Eichen House felt like walking through a waking nightmare. The oppressive atmosphere clung to me like a second skin, and every step felt like it was leading me deeper into something I wasn't ready to face. I moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, my senses sharp, my focus on finding Stiles and Lydia before things took a turn for the worse, what had they been thinking, coming here?

When I found them, they were in a standoff with Brunski. My heart raced, not from fear, but from the urgency to act before it was too late. Lydia and Stiles were tied up, helpless, and Brunski's malevolence was profound.

Without hesitation, I stepped out of the shadows and into the fray. The fight was swift—Brunski was no match for the shadows that surged at my command. Within moments, it was over, and Brunski lay defeated.

But just before his end, Brunski let slip the final piece of the puzzle: Meredith was the benefactor. The revelation was like a punch to the gut. None of us had seen it coming. As the weight of it settled, a silence fell over the room.

The air shifted. From the shadows, Meredith stepped into the light. Her presence, so calm, so composed, sent a chill through me. She wasn't the vulnerable girl from Eichen House anymore. There was a cold clarity in her eyes, a sense of control that I hadn't anticipated.

She stood before us, the orchestrator of the dead pool, a mastermind cloaked in the guise of weakness. The shock of it held us all still for a moment, as if the room itself was trying to process the truth. Meredith had been pulling the strings all along, and we had walked right into her trap.

The challenge now was clear. We had to confront Meredith, unravel the web of deceit she had spun, and bring an end to the chaos she had unleashed. But as I looked at her, standing there with an unnerving calm, I knew this battle was far from over. Meredith was more dangerous than we had ever imagined.