I’m frozen in Riley’s dorm, the journal—labeled "ALEX," full of her crazy—still in my hands when the door creaks open. My head snaps up, my breath catching hard, and there she is—Riley, standing in the doorway, her hoodie dripping wet from the rain outside, her eyes wide and wild like a cornered animal. The room’s dark—my phone’s light flickering across the cluttered desk, the peeling walls—and the air’s thick, heavy with coffee and her sharp perfume, choking me. My heart slams against my ribs, loud and fast, and my legs lock, the wooden box I pulled from under her bed still open at my feet, spilling her secrets—photos, notes, proof she’s been after Alex, framing me. I’m caught—dead caught—and she knows it, her stare cutting through me like glass.
She steps in, slow, her boots squishing on the damp floor, and shuts the door behind her—soft, deliberate, the click of the lock snapping loud in the silence. My stomach drops, cold and heavy—she’s cornering me, trapping me in this tiny space, no way out. The blinds rattle, the wind outside pushing at them, and I glance around—desk piled with junk, bed shoved against the wall, shelves sagging with books—but there’s nothing, no escape. My hands shake, the journal slipping a little, and I clutch it tighter, my knuckles white. She’s got me, and I feel it—the danger, sharp and real, crawling up my spine.
“Riley—” I start, my voice shaky, cracking, but she cuts me off, stepping closer, her shadow stretching long across the floor. Her face is pale, rain streaking her cheeks, but her eyes—dark, burning—lock on me, unblinking. She reaches into her hoodie pocket, slow, and pulls out a knife—small, silver, the blade catching my phone’s light, glinting sharp. My breath stops, my chest tightening—she’s not just mad, she’s gone, lost it completely. “You should’ve stayed out of this,” she whispers, her voice low, rough, like it’s scraping out of her. She holds the knife loose, dangling it, but her grip shifts—tight, ready—and my legs tremble, my boots glued to the floor.
I step back, slow, my heel hitting the bed frame, and my hands fumble—the journal drops, thumping soft on the carpet, pages splaying open. “I—I didn’t—” I stammer, my throat dry, my words stuck, but she moves closer, her boots creaking, the knife steady now. “You think you can take him?” she hisses, her voice rising, sharp. “Alex—he’s mine, always was—you’re nothing, Jamie, nothing!” Her words hit hard, wild, echoing her journals—“He was mine first”—and I see it—her obsession, her hate, all aimed at me. My back presses against the wall, cold plaster digging into my spine, and I’m trapped, her breath close, her eyes flashing.
“I found it,” I say, fast, my voice shaking but loud. “Your journals—proof you framed me, stole the money—Alex’ll see!” My hands flail, pointing at the box, the scattered photos—him at the store, me scratched out—and she freezes, just a second, her face twisting, red and furious. “You don’t get it,” she snaps, stepping in, the knife lifting, close—too close—to my chest. “He doesn’t need you—he needs me—I’m fixing it, getting you out!” Her voice cracks, shrill, and I feel the heat off her, the crazy spilling out—she’s not stopping, not ever.
My heart’s racing, my hands sweaty, and I scan the room—desk cluttered with pens, a cracked mug, a half-dead plant drooping in its pot—looking for anything, any way out. The knife’s near, the tip glinting, and my breath’s fast, shallow—she’s unhinged, ready to use it. “Riley, stop—” I try, my voice breaking, but she laughs, short, harsh, her head tilting. “Stop? You broke in—found my stuff—you think I’ll let you walk out?” She lunges, quick, the knife slicing air near my arm, and I jerk back, my shoulder slamming the wall, pain shooting down my side. My phone drops, clattering, the light spinning wild across the ceiling, and it’s dark now—just her shape, her knife, closing in.
I stumble, my boots catching on the rug—threadbare, stained—and my hands grab the bed frame, cold metal biting my palms. She’s on me, fast, her free hand shoving my chest, pinning me, her breath hot on my face. “You’re done,” she whispers, the knife rising, and my head spins—fear, panic—my legs shaking bad. I twist, desperate, my elbow knocking her arm, but she’s strong, wild, pushing back, the blade grazing my sleeve, tearing fabric. My chest burns—I’m trapped, cornered—and she’s yelling now, words tumbling out—“Alex is mine—mine—you’re nothing—nothing!”—her voice echoing, filling the room.
I’m gasping, my hands scrabbling, and my fingers brush something—cold, heavy—on the bedside table. A lamp—small, brass, its cord tangled—and I grab it, quick, my grip slippery with sweat. She swings the knife again, close, the air whistling, and I duck, my hair brushing her arm, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. “Riley—no!” I yell, my voice raw, but she’s past hearing, her eyes blank, lost. I yank the lamp, the plug ripping free from the wall, and swing it—hard, fast—my arms shaking, aiming for her, needing to stop her.