Chapter Text
A clicking sound came from within the classroom.
And as soon as she heard that, she realised that there was something wrong with her body.
She tried to move, to do so much as lift a finger—
She couldn't.
There was no panicked increase in her heartbeat, her breaths weren't coming out faster as she got more worried with every passing moment, and she couldn't even blink.
Well, that wasn't quite right.
She could blink—she was. It wasn't when she wanted to.
She couldn't concentrate and try and force it; rather, it happened at a natural rate as she stayed sat in her seat, staring instead of writing down the answers to the test in front of her.
It lasted for minutes on end before she finally picked up her pen and started to scribble down on the paper—
Only it wasn't her that was doing it.
It felt like she was being pulled along, limbs moving without her consent with familiar ease, and she couldn't so much as breathe in sharply from surprise.
The best way to explain it was that her body was on auto-pilot.
There was no moving her head, so she could only glance side-to-side to see whether there was anything else that was out of place. No one was paying attention to her; class-mates were busy with their tests and the teacher was watching from the front, so there wasn't anyone that would recognise her panic.
She looked fine on the outside.
To her confusion, the answers being written down were wrong.
There was nothing she could do to correct it.
When the bell rang, signalling that class was over, there was a loud noise mingled in with it.
Her body snapped back into her command.
She stood up on shaky legs, staring down at her hands as she spread her fingers.
They were responding just fine.
It seemed like all the panic hit her at once; the twisting of her stomach, the dryness of her mouth, and she barely made it to the nearest toilet to throw up.
There wasn't anyone there to ask if she was okay.
Running her fingers through her hair and pulling at the roots, the pain helped to ground her a bit. The actions were purely her own, the erratic beating of her heart was because of her thoughts, and the shaky hands were a tell-tale sign that she wasn't in the best way mentally.
She breathed out—
There was a click.
She was in the lunch hall.
Baffled, she tried to look around, horrified to realise that only her eyes could move.
Moments ago, she'd been sat on top of the toilet, trying to say that everything was okay.
It wasn't.
She watched as other students went about their lunch break, either carrying trays to sit down or taking their food outside. And instead of joining any of them, she was awkwardly standing there the entire time with her back against the wall, feeling completely out of place.
There was the distinct feeling of hunger from her stomach.
She didn't get to eat.
And throughout it all, no one looked at her.
Another loud sound.
She was in front of the school.
But that didn't—
It didn't make sense. She'd been in the lunch hall!
And yet, that didn't matter when her body was moving on auto-pilot, pausing outside the entrance gates to kneel down and re-tie her shoes.
When had they come undone?
She didn't have a chance to ponder that before her body was walking again, making her way through the halls.
When her eyes watered, it was because of her yawning, not her panic.
Her body wasn't listening to her. There was no control as she sat in her desk in the middle of the room—one of the only ones without someone beside her—and waited for the teacher to arrive, realising belatedly that the clock on the wall was wrong.
It should've been past noon, not early in the morning.
And yet, it read that it was time for morning registration, not in the afternoon after lunch.
Her class-mates were talking and laughing and all their noise was only making her feel worse. Mentally, that was. Her body seemed perfectly fine, if not a bit tired from all the yawning.
Miss Bustier arrived, hushing the class into silence.
Names were called for registration.
“Adrien?”
Unlike her other class-mates, she wasn't slumped over or comfortable. She had her bag down on the floor by her legs, sat upright in her seat, hands folded on her lap obediently.
“Yes, here!”
There were a few giggles throughout the room.
“Chloé?” Miss Bustier called.
There was a grumbled reply of, “Here.”
She was familiar with them, of course.
After being accepted to the secondary school, they were sorted into form groups for registration amongst their year. They'd been together all throughout, sitting down each morning and afternoon to check attendance.
And—
And why couldn't she remember when her name got called?
There was more laughter.
Although she couldn't turn around to see where it was coming from, the voices were familiar. Of course they were—they'd spent a few minutes a day together for years at a minimum because of their form, hours of other classes included in if they'd been put into the same classrooms.
Her body wasn't reflecting her panic.
Because she—
She didn't know what her name was.
Miss Bustier carried on, completely unaware of her distress. “Nino?”
That wasn't—
A loud click.
She couldn't flinch.
There was something wrong.
Her memory was fuzzy, though her body seemed to be in good condition—if not being in control of it counted as that.
It was her mind that wasn't functioning properly.
She couldn't remember specific details of her life. And the fact that she didn't know how she travelled from place-to-place, skipping through the days at a frantic pace, was horribly concerning.
There wasn't anyone that she could turn to when she couldn't move—
It wasn't a classroom that time.
She was in a supermarket with a basket in her hand, inspecting the ingredients of a can. And even without her reading it, her body placed it into the basket, seeming to find it acceptable.
How would her brain comprehend the text if she was moving her eyes to the side?
It didn't matter, apparently.
There wasn't anything special about that time, just like all the others. She was experiencing an out of body experience while doing something as mundane as shopping.
She didn't know how she got there.
And she—
Did she live nearby?
There was a faint memory of where the supermarket was located, but her brain was fuzzy when she tried to recall her home. It was the same as when she'd tried to remember her name; no recollections popping up that would help her to understand what was happening.
That was missing like her time, then.
Instead of paying for the ingredients, she put the basket down and left.
And as she walked outside, she looked around—as well as she could—to see if there were any signs to help tell her where she was. It didn't matter to her body that moved with familiarity, not phased in the slightest by her inner-panic, but even a small bit of knowledge would've been reassuring.
There was a large parking lot out front.
It wasn't a small neighbourhood shop.
She was moving to the left.
The loud noise felt like someone had clapped beside her ear loudly.
“Your test scores are in!” the teacher happily announced, gesturing to their desk with a flourish. “It took me two weeks, but I finally got round to it.”
Two weeks?
It was fine.
She was fine.
There was nothing to suggest that it was the same test she remembered taking what seemed like hours ago. It could've been something from her missing time, even if it was the same classroom that she'd been sat in before.
If nothing was making sense anyway, why should this be something she knew?
It wasn't until the end of the lesson that the tests were handed out. She'd sat stiffly through the whole class unable to move, not even tapping her foot nervously as she wrote out notes.
The teacher didn't call out names. Instead, they walked around, placing the papers on everyone's desks, offering only brief and positive feedback on their way.
When the paper appeared for her, no words were said.
The wrong answers she recognised from before were now circled in red pen.
Her body picked the test up, holding it with two hands.
She didn't look at the encouraging comments scribbled down from the teacher.
Her eyes were the only part in her control.
There was no dramatic intake of breath, no gasp escaping her lips, and nothing to suggest how shocked she was when she glanced up at the top of the page.
She didn't have a name written down.
It happened ten more times.
The best way to describe it was that she blinked and became aware that her surroundings had changed without explanation. There was no disorientation, no adapting to the new surroundings, and her body seemed perfectly healthy despite how much she was panicking in her mind.
She couldn't see a doctor when she wasn't in control.
Unlike the other day—week or month, it was hard to keep track of time at all—she didn't regain the ability to move. She couldn't have another breakdown in the toilet and be late for class.
That's if she even made it to class in the first place when that was a part of her lost time.
She was terrified.
Her body didn't feel like it was her own, she didn't know where she was half of the time, and she didn't know her name—
She knew her class-mates.
Even without listening to snippets throughout the days of teachers calling out for attendance at the start of each class, she knew little things.
There was one girl that had dyed her hair red the previous year and had been sent to see the headmaster. She'd been suspended for two days and had to dye her hair back a natural colour.
She could recall that a guy she only had maths class with had once participated in a talent show in primary school, singing his heart out before being embarrassed and snapping at anyone that brought it up afterwards.
If she had memories that far back, why couldn't she remember the details about herself?
It didn't matter that she knew about others bragging about their phone cases, what their parents had bought for them, or where they'd gone on holiday over break—
Holiday?
“I can't believe we're already back here,” Chloé complained loudly, slumping forward onto her desk. “I slept in until, like, noon for the past week.”
Chloé was sat in front of her.
Alya—the girl who'd dyed her hair red before—laughed. “I thought you went to your house in the countryside?”
She'd missed a break, then.
Other than the supermarket, she'd always been in the school.
“Yeah, why do you think I was sleeping in?” Chloé replied. “I was so bored. There's nothing out there!”
Alya snickered. “That's what your parents wanted.”
“To bore me to death?”
While she couldn't even lift a finger, she had to listen to gossip. That was what her life had amounted to now.
She wanted to cry.
Her face was blank instead of showing her emotions.
Alya nudged Chloé with her elbow. “That time away give you the inspiration to finish your plan?”
“Alya!” Chloé hissed, sharply turning her head to the side to see if anyone had overheard. “Shut up.”
Chloé hadn't even looked at her.
“What?” Alya questioned. “I'm doing you a favour.”
“Bitch, no.”
“This is our last year!” Alya whispered loudly back. “And you haven't even gotten his number. What are you doing?”
Chloé retorted, “Pining.”
She hated this more with every passing second.
Throughout it all, no one had spoken to her. The teachers never said anything when they placed something on her desk, none of her class-mates were ever sat beside her in class, and she was questioning her existence with each passing second.
It was a living nightmare.
There was that loud noise again.
Her shoulders slumped, body crumbling from the stiff position she'd been sitting in before, and she ran a hand roughly over her face to feel something.
She was in control.
There was the question for how long she would be.
Her hands started to shake as she squeezed her eyes shut, wanting nothing more for the blackness to stay over her vision—because that was better than the ever-changing surroundings that she'd been seeing for so long.
She didn't know her name.
The desk felt cool against her face.
And as the bell rang, she stayed there, slumped against the desk as her class-mates chatted and left the room to get to their first lesson.
No one spoke to her.
She cried.
Three things were true; she was aware, she was in control of her body, and she was absolutely miserable.
“Miss?”
Her head snapped up.
Miss Bustier was looking at her in concern.
“I think you're in the wrong classroom,” Miss Bustier said, getting a pack of tissues out of the desk and awkwardly passing one to her. “I can write you a note for your teacher to explain your delay, if you'd like.”
She sniffled loudly.
Miss Bustier gave her a polite smile. “Your name?”
This was her teacher.
She'd sat in her classroom for years for registration, and yet—
“My name?” she croaked out.
Miss Bustier nodded.
Her throat felt tight. “You don't know my name?”
“I don't,” Miss Bustier confirmed, putting another tissue in front of her. “And I'm pretty good at remembering faces. Maybe you'll be in one of my classes next year.”
Her voice came out as a whisper. “I'm in your class.”
It earned her a confused smile. “I'm sorry?”
She started crying more.
It was November.
She knew that because Chloé and Alya were chattering away on what to get Chloé's crush for his birthday at the end of the month.
With the classrooms swapping without warning, she started to notice little things.
When she came back to noticing her surroundings, there was always a loud noise. It didn't seem to be from anywhere in particular; it had happened in different classrooms, outside in the field for PE, and even at the supermarket.
No one else reacted to it.
Or—
Were they like her?
She desperately wanted to know if anyone else was experiencing what she was.
Although it was rare, there were times where the sound played again, a sound clap that echoed in her head, and that was when she could move her body freely.
And instead of crying and breaking down, the last time she'd fumbled to try and find her phone, only to just grasp it from the bottom of her bag as time jumped.
It had to be an illness.
She'd seen shows about it before. Main characters with an illness, mental or not, that managed to damage their memory. There was even one instance she'd read about someone leaving notes because they were missing time, only for it to be a gas leak of some sort—
Why could she remember that but not anything about herself?
As soon as she could move, she ripped a piece of paper off, scribbling down the time from the clock at the front of the classroom.
She shoved it in her blazer pocket.
It took two more flickers until she regained mobility.
The paper wasn't there any more and she didn't know what date it was.
And rather than dwell on that, she jumped out of her seat, catching the closest class-mate by their wrist to stop them from leaving the room.
It was Chloé; tall and pretty with natural blonde hair that she always bragged about whenever someone else bleached their hair.
Chloé turned to look at her, ripping her wrist from her grip. “What the fuck?”
She questioned, “Do you know who I am?”
Chloé's expression turned to one of disgust. “No, now leave me alone.”
“You don't?” she persisted, awkwardly standing in front of her to block her from leaving. “We're in a lot of the same classes—”
Instead of shoving her out of the way, Chloé sighed. “What do you want?”
“I sat behind you just now,” she pointed out.
“That means nothing to me,” Chloé replied without hesitation.
“We have the same form tutor,” she stated.
Chloé scoffed. “And I'd care about that why?”
She blinked.
“Move,” Chloé demanded.
“Wait, I—”
Chloé really did push her out of the way for that.
It was worth a try, at least. The failure didn't mean that she was going to give up.
Stubbornly, when she regained function in the next class, she turned around, spotting Chloé sitting two tables back, happily chatting with her friend.
The teacher was at the desk at the front, not paying attention to their antics. Her class-mates were chatting loudly, barely doing their work, and that didn't seem to be a problem.
So, she scrunched up a piece of paper, forming it into a ball before she purposely threw it towards Chloé.
It wasn't Chloé that she hit.
Adrien's head snapped up as he touched his cheek, looking around the room quizzically for the culprit.
He was a better choice than Chloé.
Adrien's reputation was good; he was kind, went out of his way to help others even if he was bad at it—such as him joining the basketball team when they'd lost a member—and he was friendly with almost everyone. Even the other years were familiar with him, and he was usually the teacher's choice to select to help give tours around the school for potential new students.
He knew a lot of people.
Would he know her?
She raised her hand to get his attention, mouthing that she was sorry.
His confused expression grew.
Adrien held up the ball of paper and pointed at it.
She nodded.
It only made him more confused.
She didn't know how to feel about that.
Although the teacher didn't seem to care about them talking, that didn't mean she could get up and walk to the back of the room to talk with someone else. All the others were in their seats and talking to who they were already beside, so she'd have to wait.
Unless—
Unless time wasn't on her side and she'd experience blank spots once more.
Luckily for her, she was able to stay conscious until the end of the lesson. A glance at the clock proved that it was time for their first break, meaning that it had been her second class for that day.
She hadn't noticed that.
Luck was on her side once more.
After placing her bag on her lap and started to pack away her belongings—in which she had a new pencil case that she hadn't remembered getting—Adrien came to stand beside her, his own backpack hanging off one of his shoulders.
There was still confusion in his voice as he held out the paper ball. “I believe this is yours?”
“Thanks,” she said, taking it and awkwardly placing it into her bag. “That's my most precious possession.”
He let out a laugh. “Is it?”
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked, going for a less of an aggressive approach than she had with Chloé. And when he nodded, she elaborated, “Do you know who I am?”
He tilted his head. “Are you new?”
Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. “No.”
Adrien squinted. “Really?”
“I'm in your form,” she admitted. “I sit behind Chloé.”
He made a surprised noise. “Oh, you do?”
She nodded.
“I—sorry,” he awkwardly replied, running his fingers through his hair. “I don't think I've ever seen you before.”
That wasn't the first person to tell her that, was it? Miss Bustier, Chloé, and now Adrien—they were all people that she had a recollection of spending years with, regardless of the missing time that was adding up.
“Right,” she said, standing up fast enough for her chair to squeak against the floor. Her eyes were watering and her throat was starting to feel tight. “I should—I should go.”
“Hang on—” Adrien called out. “Wait a minute!”
Her hands were shaking as she opened the door.
He jogged after her, sounding ever-so-close as he asked, “What's your name?”
Teary-eyed, she looked over her shoulder at him. “I don't know.”
He opened his mouth to respond—
There was a click.
She couldn't move again.
It was time for PE.
Although they were indoors, the standard shorts of the uniform were cold. She couldn't pull her socks up for some warmth, so she was stuck standing on the sidelines while the rest of her class were busy playing basketball.
They were usually separated by gender.
That day, the boys were playing with the girls, mixed in with together and split into two matches on different sides of the gymnasium. One team on each side had a vest on top of their uniform shirt to stand out instead of having it be versus the other gender.
She couldn't glance down to see if she had one on.
The sounds of the basketball hitting the floor, the squeaks of shoes, laughter and chatter filled the room while she was stuck standing there stiffly, legs growing tired from being there for so long.
She was tired.
There was a scream.
Her head moved so she could see that a ball had hit Chloé in the face, resulting in blood trickling down from her nose, falling down onto the red vest that she was wearing.
Adrien was immediately beside her. “I'm so sorry! I was trying to pass—”
“Fuck you,” Chloé snapped, holding her nose.
Mr. D'Argencourt told Chloé off for her language before asking Adrien to escort her to the nurse.
“No, I—” Chloé tried to say, making a strangled sort of noise when Adrien lifted up her vest to her nose to catch the blood. “You don't need to.”
“It's my fault,” Adrien said, smile not reaching his eyes. “I'm so sorry.”
Chloé's face was red.
The two of them were shooed through the doors.
And Mr. D'Argencourt had fetched some tissues to clear up the blood, he clapped his hands and said that they'd resume the game on her side with two players missing.
Of course, she was ignored.
It was near the end of class that the loud click happened.
She sat down on the floor, frowning.
No one else had changed behaviour; they were all still playing, Mr. D'Argencourt was paying attention to each of the games equally, and she seemed to be the only one that noticed that anything was off.
“Sir!” she called out, holding her hand up.
Mr. D'Argencourt looked at her in confusion. “When did you get here?”
She frowned. “I've been here all along.”
“You can't be skipping classes like that,” he chastised, putting his hands on his hips. “I'll have to report you for that—”
Bitter, she snapped, “Let me guess, you need my name?”
“Yes, actually,” he said, offended by her attitude. “And if you're going to get stroppy with me, I'll give you detention.”
She snorted. “I'm in your class.”
“You are, yes,” Mr. D'Argencourt agreed. “What year are you in?”
“This one,” she said.
“I don't appreciate being lied to,” he replied, looking every bit the stern teacher that he'd been when shouting out the rules during the games. “What is your name?”
She flopped back against the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
“Miss!” he called.
She ignored him.
There had to be some sort of mistake.
“Excuse me?” Miss Bustier questioned, giving her a polite smile. “I don't think you're in the right room. This one's empty until next period.”
She looked up from the desk, tired. “What time is it?”
“Time for your first lesson,” Miss Bustier responded. “If you run along now, you might make it in time.”
“Day?” she asked.
Miss Bustier frowned. “Why don't you check your timetable?”
“Wow, what a great idea,” she remarked, slumping back down on the desk instead of following that simple suggestion. “Do you even know my name, Miss Bustier?”
“I'll definitely remember it after this,” Miss Bustier responded, knees clicking as she kneeled down in front of her table. “Are you okay? There's always the school counsellor you can see if you're having troubles.”
She exhaled audibly. “You don't know me, do you?”
“I do not.”
“You're my form tutor,” she told her. “I've sat in this classroom twice a day for years. I'm also in your class—”
“You're mistaken,” Miss Bustier said.
She laughed.
“What class are you supposed to be in?” Miss Bustier asked. “I can write a note to explain your... lateness.”
She shook her head.
It earned her a frown. “Miss—”
Another click.
It was the same classroom before. The clock on the wall proved that it was early morning, minutes before Miss Bustier usually arrived to take their attendance and tell them any important news, and the realisation that she'd lost so many hours had started to become less horrifying.
The best way to describe it was that she felt numb. It was on a never-ending loop with her appearing in different places, no fuzziness or disorientation in her body while it was out of her control, and any time that she tried to reach out for help—
They all asked who she was.
That's what she wanted to ask them.
From in front of her, Chloé and Alya were leaned towards each other, whispering loudly. “Did you get your invitation?”
Alya beamed. “I got the text last night. What did you say?”
She couldn't do anything but sit there stiffly, head slightly down as she'd come into awareness staring down at the table.
“Yes, of course!” Chloé exclaimed, whipping her head around to see if anyone else had heard her. “I don't know what to buy him. It has to be memorable for him to notice me, right?”
Alya snickered. “Your nosebleed was enough for that.”
Chloé whacked her arm. “Shut up! You try getting hit in the face—”
“No, thanks,” Alya denied. “I'll leave that to you. I'd rather not break my glasses, thanks.”
“I almost broke my nose!”
“The nurse said you didn't,” Alya pointed out. “You're just being dramatic.”
Chloé sniffed. “Dramatic is my regular state of being.”
“I don't think money's the way into his heart,” Alya mused. “Maybe... don't go over the top?”
Chloé scoffed. “Why not?”
“Because you have literally no concept of money,” Alya replied. “You spent, like, hundreds on my gift.”
“So?”
“So!” Alya exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “That's not normal! You're about the only person here that has a freaking holiday home, or talk about having a nanny!”
“She's an au pair,” Chloé haughtily corrected.
“Whatever, same thing,” Alya replied with a roll of her eyes. “You're too rich for your own good.”
Why did it matter?
She was having an identity crisis while these two were bickering about Chloé's love-life. It was one of the worst ways to be stuck, though having to stand up in PE for a long period of time without so much as shifting her feet was still in the number one spot.
The sound happened.
Her body snapped back into her command.
She stood up abruptly, chair hitting the desk behind in her haste, and made her way through the row to go up to the teacher's desk at the front. There were a few questions about what she was doing, but she was too busy rushing to take into account what they were saying.
Her time was limited, she knew that now.
The drawers weren't locked.
She opened it up, a surge of victory rushing through her as she found the attendance sheet.
Skimming through the names, reading each of them and matching them up to the faces in front of her, she'd made it to the bottom before Miss Bustier came in.
There wasn't a name for her.
And after counting the names, everyone else but her was included on it.
Instead of crying, she was angry.
“What's your name, kid?” the monitor asked in the lunch hall after she'd lagged behind instead of rushing off for class.
It didn't surprise her.
“Are you lost?” another teacher asked, looking at her with that perplexed expression that she was slowly growing used to. “I think you're in the wrong section. Where are you supposed to be?”
It didn't make her cry.
Miss Bustier tilted her head. “You're not in my form.”
None of it made sense—
“Who the hell are you?” Chloé snapped, looking at her like she was dirt on the bottom of her shoe. “You're in my way, move.”
The reaction wasn't only from one of them. If so, it could've be written off as a bad memory. Yet it seemed that no matter how many times she had the same conversation—such as insisting to Miss Bustier that she was, in fact, in her class—the very next time she could move freely, that person had forgotten it completely.
It was like she didn't exist.
And everyone else—
They were happy, going along without any big troubles. The biggest problem was petty fights and teenage angst.
She tried to keep count of what day and time it was.
Yet, when she came to, the page was missing from her notebook.
She attempted to write it on her planner, only for it to be erased and back in pristine condition the next time.
It shouldn't have been possible—
There was no denying that it made as much sense as her pencil case changing and her consciousness flickering in and out while her body seemed to be under someone else's control, so who was she to say that scribbles disappearing wasn't normal?
How could she be a judge of that when she didn't even remember her own name?
She might've gone mad.
That would explain the laugher that bubbled out of her. Her class-mates gave her concerned glances, whispers erupting through the classroom, and the teacher quickly told them to be quiet.
What was the point of class when she was forced to write the answers down wrong when it came to tests?
If she wasn't in control of her body permanently, why should she waste away in the classroom?
She grabbed her things, rushing out before anyone could stop her.
She ran through the hallways.
And when she was greeted with the cold air of the outside world, she realised she'd forgotten her coat back in the classroom.
It didn't matter.
The gates weren't locked at the entrance. She ran out without looking back, the burn of her lungs welcome. Because the discomfort meant that she was living—
It was her choice.
She was the one in control right then.
She ran until she was red in the face, almost falling over as she placed her hands onto her knees, breathing deeply. Her heart was beating fast, she was sweating, and her uniform was sticking to her horribly.
And yet, it was the best she'd felt in ages.
She wanted the moment to last forever.
There was a wallet at the bottom of her bag. It had enough money for her to buy an ice-pop from a corner shop.
And as she sucked on that, savouring the taste of the obnoxiously blue-coloured treat, she turned on her phone.
She didn't have any contacts.
The recent calls were blank, the texts were only from her provider, and there was no e-mail linked up to her account. Along with that, the photo album was blank, leaving no information about her to be found.
Even the background of the phone was a default one.
The disappointment she felt was becoming less and less with every dead-end.
She didn't have a name, had no home to return to, and absolutely no one recognised her. The crumpled pieces of paper and notes left behind disappeared when she next became aware, conversations were forgotten, and she—
She was alone.
“I'm here,” she whispered, placing a hand over her chest, able to feel her heartbeat. “I'm real.”
It was becoming harder to convince herself of that.
Tests called for extreme measures.
For first period, the lesson of that day was Art. She purposely poured some water into her little pot of paint, mixing it up before dumping it over her outfit.
There were the usual exclamations of asking who she was and what she was doing there.
Time skipped to lunch.
She was standing in the dining hall, no food in her arms as she watched everyone else eat. Her body was frozen, so she was unable to confirm that her uniform wasn't covered in paint.
Thirty minutes later, she could.
It was gone.
And when she asked another student which day it was, it confirmed that it really was the same day.
It was so... strange.
Then again, everything was. How did this really change anything at all?
She started to get more and more daring.
From ripping her pencil case, snipping the strap of her backpack, to going as far as to roughly hack at her hair while everyone looked at her in horror—
None of it worked.
It was still November.
She couldn't grow back inches of hair in a couple of days.
If everything reverted to how it was before she could move her body freely—
It meant that she didn't matter.
Everyone forgot her existence and anything she did to them because she was irrelevant in the eyes of the world. There was no record of her attending the school, no family to her non-existent name, and her only purpose seemed to be to attend school wordlessly.
There had to be a reason.
Something, anything—
If she didn't matter, she was going to find out what did.
There was nothing she could write down with, so it left her memory as her only ally—which was concerning considering that's what had made her realise that something was happening at all.
She started to pay more attention to her surroundings; or, more specifically who she was around whenever she snapped back into being a puppet. There had to be some sort of a trigger that caused it to happen.
It wasn't a simple case of her forgetting things any more.
For the most part, the majority of students around her when she was unable to move were from her form. As there were only four forms, it was understandable that they'd be mixed together in classes, even if it was decided by their grades.
It raised the question how she was there to begin with if there was no name on the attendance. And yet, when she opened her eyes to a desk where she sat alone, she was given an extra test that shouldn't be there when it was passed out, and the teachers graded her homework—that she never saw herself handing in, let alone doing—so there was something at play.
She existed.
It was the little things that proved it.
And maybe it wasn't that bad that she never participated in PE or that she was never called on in class. Even while she was being a puppet, it gave her time to think.
The common theme were her class-mates from her form.
Chloé, Alya, and Adrien were the most frequent. She hadn't seen either of them when she'd been at the supermarket, then again, she'd been too preoccupied to think about that back then.
Why did these three matter?
They had something that she didn't and that thought made her chest feel tight.
There was nothing of substance to their conversations; Chloé and Alya bickered and gossiped, spoke about Chloé's love-life, and Adrien was as friendly with them as he was with everyone else.
Chloé's crush on him was getting worse with every passing day.
That wasn't a surprise any more. She could remember hearing the two of them talk about Chloé's crush for years, knew that Chloé had still liked him even when he'd come in with a bad hair cut, and the fact that Adrien didn't treat Chloé any different was the biggest reason that Chloé had never tried to pursue him.
It was depressing to realise that she knew more about her class-mate's love-life than her own life.
She didn't know anything, so why should she listen to Chloé rambling about what she was going to wear to Adrien's birthday party?
“He's invited everyone, I think,” Alya mused. “If you show up with a push-up bra on, it'll get back to your parents and you'll get grounded.”
She wasn't invited.
Adrien didn't know she existed, of course.
Chloé made a disapproving noise. “But I'd look so good!”
“Good enough to be locked up for weeks?” Alya questioned.
“Maybe,” Chloé said. “It depends on whether he'll look down my shirt or not.”
“You're sounding very desperate,” Alya told her with a laugh. “I'm only saying this because I'm concerned. You're going to die of thirst one of these days.”
Chloé slumped forward, pressing her cheek against the desk.
“There, there,” Alya said, patting Chloé's shoulder. “Send me pictures later and I'll help you choose.”
Chloé mumbled, “You're the best.”
It was all about Chloé.
She was horrified with the revelation.
It was never for her to witness Alya alone. She'd come to realise that she'd never seen Adrien talking with his friends when the other two were absent, had never been in a room when all three of them were gone while she was being controlled—
The loud clicking noise happened when Chloé was there.
It was about Chloé, her stuck-up class-mate who didn't understand the value of money. The very same girl who'd scoffed and tried to bribe someone to do her homework in their very first year before a teacher had caught wind of it.
She was on the sidelines, forced to stay still to watch Chloé's unrequited crush fester and grow with every passing day.
The times that she became aware, something happened to Chloé; thus far, she'd realised it was almost always a conversation with Alya about Adrien or a scene where Chloé interacted with him.
And she was there for a lot of them at school.
The only explanation for the supermarket had to be that one of them had been there.
To answer that question, she walked over to Chloé's desk and bluntly asked her whether she goes to the specific supermarket.
Chloé jumped. “What the hell? You scared me!”
“Do you?” she pressed.
Chloé squinted. “You think I go food shopping?”
She huffed. “Have you gone there?”
“I don't know?” Chloé replied, frowning. “Who even are you?”
“Chloé?” Alya called out as she approached, giving her that same befuddled look. “What's up?”
She asked if Alya had taken Chloé to the supermarket.
“Oh, yeah!” Alya confirmed with a smile before it dimmed. “Why?”
That was all she needed to know.
There wasn't anything special about Chloé.
Chloé was loud, often distracting in class, and she wasn't the nicest person. Then again, a lot of people had their problems. The difference was all the others weren't the ones causing her life to become so muddled.
But what could she do?
Any changes she made disappeared when the sound happened; notes disappeared, physical changes reverted to how she'd been before, and that had to apply to other people, too.
There was only one way to confirm that.
Chloé and Alya were still looking at her strangely.
“Sorry about this,” she said, grimacing. “I need to confirm something.”
“What?” Chloé demanded.
She punched Chloé in the nose.
Alya shoved her back, causing her to stumble and fall against the desk behind her. Chloé had started to cry as she tried to stop the bleeding—
She ran away.
Her hand hurt.
A click.
She lost hours, skipping to the last lesson of the day.
Chloé was seated somewhere behind her, so she had to wait to inspect her. The good thing was that Chloé was so loud that she could hear her already, meaning she hadn't been sent home for the punch.
Because it would've been erased, surely.
“Chloé, stop distracting Adrien!” the teacher called out. “If you continue to, I'll have to move you.”
That was why she was a puppet, then.
It was at the end of class that the sound happened again.
She whipped her head around, staring at the back of the room.
Chloé's nose was fine. There was no redness, nothing to suggest that she'd been punched lately, and there was no blood on her clothing.
To double-check, she got up and stood in front of Chloé to question, “Did you get punched?”
Chloé was baffled. “What?”
She gestured to her nose, “Did you get punched in the face?”
“Are you calling me ugly?” Chloé demanded.
“It must've been someone else,” she said, taking a step back. “Sorry.”
The only explanation was that any changes outside of being a puppet didn't count; that they'd be reverted back to how they'd been set before.
It didn't matter what she did because it wasn't the original outcome.
And wasn't that strange?
It was all so messed up. There was no logical explanation to any of it, and the fact that she had no one to talk to made it even worse. She was alone in it, suffering and watching the same events revolving around Chloé play out without being able to do so much as lift a finger.
She ran out into the hallway.
And in her haste, she bumped into someone.
Her hands hurt again for a different reason.
“I'm so sorry!” Adrien hastily apologised, helping her up. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing's bleeding,” she replied.
“Oh, that's good,” he replied, relaxing. Then, he squinted at her and asked, “Do I know you?”
The laugh that left her wasn't sincere. “I don't expect you to.”
He tilted his head. “What does that mean?”
“I'm forgettable,” she said, stepping back and smoothing out her uniform. The dirt that had gotten onto her sleeves would be gone in the next scene. “Unlike you. Are you aware you're the teenage heartthrob in this school?”
He blinked. “What?”
She patted his shoulder. “Good luck.”
“Wait,” he called out, jogging to catch up to her. “What's your name?”
She stilled. “Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, confused. “Because I want to know. Is that so bad?”
“Tell you what,” she started, looking over her shoulder with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “If you remember this conversation, I'll let you know.”
Adrien frowned. “Are we not in the same classes?”
She laughed. “That's the question, isn't it?”
“Okay, I'll look for you,” he agreed. “It won't be that hard. You stand out.”
No one had said that to her before. “I stand out?”
“You're—” Adrien trailed off, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Right.”
His ears were red. “I'll see you tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” she replied.
“I'm sorry again,” he told her, shifting on the spot. “For knocking into you.”
“I was the one running,” she pointed out.
“Oh,” he breathed.
“Are you in this class?” Adrien questioned.
She opened her eyes from where she was slumped on the desk. It hadn't been long enough for her to fall asleep, but she'd been so fed up.
“I'm Adrien,” he offered.
“The bell just rang,” she pointed out. “You think I'd be here if I wasn't in this class?”
“I don't know,” he replied, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chin. “I think I would've noticed you around.”
“You noticed me now,” she said.
He smiled. “I guess that's true?”
She closed her eyes.
Apparently, he didn't have any plans to leave. “It's break time.”
“I can't catch a break,” she mumbled, bitter. “Ever.”
“You'll miss it if you stay in here moping,” he said.
She didn't reply to that.
Then, there was the noise of a chair scraping against the floor. She lifted her head up and was incredulous to see that Adrien had sat down backwards in the chair in front of her, folding his arms and placing his chin on them as he looked at her with a smile.
“It's break time,” she repeated his words with a furrowed brow. “Shouldn't you be with your friends?”
“They'll be fine,” he replied. “Are you a new student?”
“Might as well be,” she said.
His smile showed dimples on his cheeks. “What's your name?”
The question didn't annoy her as much any more. It was a normal thing for people to ask, and everyone other than her could answer it easily.
She sat up properly, rolling her shoulders to make them click. “That's a secret.”
“A secret?” he repeated, amused. “How do I unlock it?”
“By becoming my friend,” she answered. “That's usually how you get secrets out of people, isn't it?”
He wasn't put-off by her attitude. “I'll be your friend.”
“It's not about saying it,” she told him, complete with a shake of her head. “It's all in the actions, you know? Claiming you're my friend is different to actually being there for me.”
“Oh,” he said.
Although he was quiet, he was still looking at her, sitting casually in his chair as though he didn't have any other plans for that day. It wasn't normal for Adrien to lag behind his friends; usually, he had at least one by his side.
His popularity made it so he was never alone.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Because I wanted to say hi,” he said, offering her another smile that didn't look forced in the slightest. “And you looked... sad.”
“Sad?” she questioned. “I was trying to sleep.”
“Sleeping through break is a little sad,” he pointed out.
Adrien was nice, that seemed to be his main feature. He was pretty, was able to hold conversations with anyone—student and teacher alike—and he was the person that other students went to if they had a problem.
She remembered him doing the majority of a presentation for a group the previous year.
“It's been so long that I don't remember what my bed's like,” she said, propping her elbow up on the desk and leaning her head into her hand. “You couldn't let me relive that a little?”
He told her, “The desk's cold and hard.”
“I want to sleep on my own terms,” she proclaimed.
He snorted. “That's all well and good until you wake up with a scream because of the bell.”
She squinted. “Has that happened to you?”
As he laughed, he ran his fingers through his hair before touching the back of his neck. “Maybe?”
“You're too nice,” she said. “Don't you—aren't you ever fed up with all of this?”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I don't think I've ever seen you mad,” she remarked. “And you're friendly with, like, everyone. Even some assholes that talk badly about you behind your back.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“I want to live for myself.” Her voice came out as a whisper. “Don't you?”
He opened his mouth to reply—
She never heard his answer.
Adrien's party happened over the weekend.
She was only aware of it from all the whispers and gossip that went around. From Chloé and Alya talking, she learned that Chloé did wear a push-up bra and get ignored for the majority of the night, that someone had threw up into a vase in Adrien's home, and the flowerbeds in the garden had been ruined, resulting in him being grounded.
It didn't sound fun in the slightest.
Then, she realised that she'd never been to a party before. There were no memories in her recollection of it—a missing portion along with what her parents could look like, or even where she lived.
The unknown was becoming more and more.
There was one thing that was becoming more apparent: with every time the puppet strings were gone, she was able to be in control for a longer period of time. It was miniscule compared to the hours lost, yet there was no denying that it was increasing.
She considered it building stamina.
The time limit she had was roughly fifteen minutes.
With that in mind, she decided to go to the library and pick out the first row of books in the fiction section, stacking them up on a desk in the corner of the room. Although it would disappear, she skimmed through, writing down the names of characters before moving onto the next one.
She was trying to see which one fit her.
Under her breath, she mumbled them, writing it out a couple of times to see whether it felt right.
That first time, she didn't find the one.
The next time she came, picking up a different row of books, it wasn't long until she was interrupted by someone asking her, “What are you doing?”
She tilted her head back. “Adrien?”
“That's me?” It came out sounding like a question. “Are you busy? Sorry, I—all the other desks are taken up, so I wanted to ask if I could sit with you.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” she said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her.
She continued on with her search.
Adrien had gotten out one of his textbooks and was writing down notes. Him fiddling with his pen was quick distracting when he kept tapping it against the desk.
“Can you stop?” she asked.
“Sorry,” he said, offering her a sheepish smile.
She went back to her work.
It was some minutes later that he slumped on his desk, pressing his cheek into the notebook. “What are you looking for?”
“Names,” she replied.
“You need one for creative writing?” Adrien questioned, curious. “I usually search for a random one online—then again, I'm not a very good writer. Maybe you're more dedicated than me.”
“For me,” she clarified, turning the page and skimming through to see if any new characters were introduced.
“Are you—” Adrien started, dropping his voice into a whisper. “Are you pregnant?”
She snapped her head up to stare at him. “I'm fifteen.”
“I'm sixteen,” he said, giving her a goofy-looking smile. “It's nice to meet you.”
She blinked.
He smiled wider, clearly pleased with his joke.
Was that normal? They'd barely interacted in the past, but from what she knew, his sense of humour was usually something that complimented whoever he was talking to.
“I'm not pregnant,” she informed him. “I need a name for myself.”
“Oh, cool,” he remarked, sitting up. There was ink smeared on his cheek. “Like a transition thing?”
“Uh, sure.”
“That's important, then,” Adrien said, propping his arm up on the table, almost causing his pen to roll off the edge as he rested his head in his hand. “What do you have in mind?”
“I don't know,” she admitted, a bit stumped as she place her pen down. “Nothing has... nothing's felt right yet, you know?”
“It took me ages to name my cat,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “You have a cat?”
“I love him very much,” Adrien revealed. “Wanna see a picture?”
How had she not known that?
He was the second most important person in this life; or, rather, the most important to Chloé, who the universe seemed to revolve around.
“Yes?”
When he turned his phone around to show his photo album, he was smiling wide, leaning closer to point out and explain what was happening in each picture. Almost every picture was of a black cat, either stretched out, sleeping, or doing something stupid.
He kept the blurry pictures, happily telling her about what had happened when he took them.
It was the happiest she'd seen him before.
“I—sorry,” Adrien said, clearing his throat. His body language screamed that he was embarrassed, and the red at the top of his ears proved that further. “I kind of... ramble on a lot when I talk about him.”
“It's fine,” she told him, truly meaning it. “I'd do the same if I had a cat.”
His expression brightened. “You would?”
“I mean, yeah,” she said, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. “A pet is always there for you, right? I'd kill for that.”
“He's a bit grumpy,” Adrien said, smile showing his teeth. “And pretends to hate me. But when I ignore him, he comes and slaps me with his paw.”
She returned the smile. “Cute.”
He started showing her pictures again. “Isn't he?”
They spoke for the few minutes she had remaining.
It seemed that whenever Adrien saw her within the down-time between scenes, he came over to talk. He always asked for her name, sat down or hovered there while asking her what she was doing, and it didn't seem worth it to try and get him to leave.
He wasn't doing any harm.
It was nice to talk to someone, no matter how short it was for.
He didn't remember their conversations, so he asked her three more times what she was doing in the library during break.
The last time, she questioned right back, “Shouldn't you be with your friends? They'd let you copy their homework.”
He shrugged. “I wanted a break.”
“You're sat with me,” she said.
“I've never seen you before,” Adrien replied, giving her a sheepish smile. “Are you in my year? Maybe we'll be in the same classes—”
She cut him off with, “Do you have a cat?”
He was surprised. “Yes?”
“Can I see?” she asked.
That always stopped his torrent of questions. It seemed that enquiring about his cat was a sure way to get him to drop his guard, preferring to gush and launch into the newest table of mischief that his cat had gotten up to.
She could see why everyone liked him so much.
The inevitable happened.
Although she'd been free at lunch, there wasn't any money in her wallet. It hadn't been replenished from the time she'd bought the ice-pop at the corner store. To her, it seemed like days ago, but in reality it had been weeks.
Time was funny when she didn't have to sleep.
She'd wandered outside to the playground, looking for a place to sit down that wasn't wet. The majority of the students were inside the dining hall or an open classroom that a teacher was taking pity on them with, so she only had to stray over to the year below hers section for an empty bench.
She was too tired to look for names that day.
Adrien didn't take long to find her.
His brow was furrowed. “Are you okay?”
“How did you name your cat?” she asked him.
His confusion grew. “You know I have a cat?”
“I've heard it around,” she explained with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Wasn't it hard? I'm trying to pick a name for mine, but it's... not quite right.”
“I don't know,” he said, putting his hands into the pockets of his blazer. It was slightly too big for him. “I had this whole list when I was waiting to pick him up. But when I actually held him, none of them fit.”
She sighed. “Yeah.”
“Are you in my year?” he questioned.
“Yes, we're not in any of the same classes,” she replied, scooting over to make room for him. “I've heard about you, though. Golden boy and all that.”
He sat down hesitantly. “People say that?”
“Well, that or they shit-talk you,” she mused. “You're too nice to everyone.”
He frowned. “I don't like being mean.”
“Saying no isn't mean,” she pointed out. “Nor is telling them that they can't copy your homework. You got caught for that earlier, didn't you?”
Adrien was wide-eyed. “How'd you know that already?”
“I'm a ghost,” she deadpanned. “I hear everything.”
“I... don't think that's how ghosts work,” he awkwardly replied.
“You don't get to tell me that!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly at herself. “I'm the one that exists in this weird hell.”
“Uh, I'm also here,” Adrien said, that confused smile becoming increasingly familiar to her.
“Why are you here?” she questioned. “You should be eating lunch.”
He averted his eyes. “I'm not hungry today.”
She hummed. “Right.”
“I'm not,” he insisted.
“I didn't say otherwise,” she pointed out.
He crossed his arms.
Luckily, he wasn't pushing the question of her identity. Adrien had accepted that she knew of him rather quickly. Then again, with how popular he was, it was possible that that scenario had happened before.
She couldn't imagine sitting down with a stranger in his place.
She quietly said, “You don't have to sit with me.”
“You're sat with me,” he replied, pushing his shoulders up to try and get his coat to cover his neck more. The cold weather was making it even colder with every passing day. “And it's nice to sit with someone new.”
“I wouldn't know,” she mused. “I'm always alone in classes.”
“Everyone was already sharing a desk when you transferred?”
She laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”
“That sucks,” he offered. “We might be able to change our seats soon!”
“That won't fix anything.”
“Not with that attitude,” he said.
She sighed, slumping back on the bench. “What's it like to have friends?”
“Wow, you're pretty depressed, huh?” he remarked, letting out a small laugh. “I—no that I'm, like, mocking you or anything. I just—I didn't expect you to be so... sad.”
She snorted. “You always think I'm sad.”
“This is the first time we've met.”
“What can I say? I don't leave a good impression,” she replied, closing her eyes.
“You're not that bad,” Adrien assured her. “You've nailed the whole gloomy girl look.”
“I've got a look?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” he confirmed. “You're very pretty.”
She opened her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I mean—”
“Pretty forgettable,” she lamely said.
The redness on his face wasn't only from the cold. “I wouldn't say that.”
She squinted. “Did you come over here because you think I'm pretty?”
He grimaced. “Is that... a problem?”
And how was she supposed to take that?
She bluntly asked, “Can you point your affections elsewhere?”
“Affections?” he repeated, his voice higher-pitched than normal. “What—why are you talking like that?”
“I've read a lot of period drama books lately,” she remarked. “Weirdly enough, there's a lot of them in the library. I was hoping for some more modern romance novels to get my names from.”
He blinked.
It was probably the best response to that.
He worked up the courage to ask, “What do you mean with—with pointing it elsewhere?”
“I mean,” she started, awkwardly gesturing around them. “Isn't there anyone that catches your eye out there? In the way where your... body just doesn't react the way you want it to?”
Adrien tilted his head. “You caught my eye.”
“That's nice.”
“Is it?” he questioned, still a little pink in the face as he touched the back of his neck shyly.
She asked, “What do you think of Chloé?”
He was taken aback. “Which one?”
“Uh, the one in your form,” she clarified. “Boursin or whatever.”
He laughed. “Bourgeois?”
She kept a straight face. “That's what I said.”
“She's... okay?” Adrien replied, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “A little... loud?”
“A little?” she questioned.
“Okay, a lot,” he corrected with a wince. “And very giggly.”
“That's because she likes you,” she bluntly replied.
He huffed. “Yeah, right.”
“She does,” she insisted. “Didn't you notice her push-up bra at your party? She did that just for you.”
He looked perplexed. “I barely spoke to her.”
She made a thoughtful noise. “You're not a big fan of cheese?”
“What?”
“Boursin?” she reminded him. “And she's got cheese hair.”
“...I'm also blond.”
“Yeah, but I like you,” she explained with a shrug. “She's rude, so she's cheese.”
He grew more bewildered. “Okay.”
“For the future, maybe don't go and talk to anyone that you find pretty,” she advised, reaching over to pat his arm. “You can do better.”
“I'm very confused,” he told her.
“Yeah, same,” she agreed. “But that doesn't change the fact that you haven't noticed Chloé's big fat crush on you.”
He started to say, “That's not—”
She wasn't the one to interrupt him.
Chloé stormed up to them. “Why are you telling him that?”
She jumped from the sudden intrusion. “Where did you come from?”
“That's—that's not the point!” Chloé exclaimed, going as far as to stomp her foot. “Who the hell are you?”
“This is—” Adrien stopped, realising that he didn't know her name. “She's... a friend?”
Chloé's face grew red. “I don't have a crush on you!”
He leaned back. “Okay?”
Chloé shrieked, “I don't!”
“I didn't say you did!” Adrien exclaimed right back, holding his hands up in a sign of surrender. “I really don't know what's going on.”
And instead of listening in on the drama, she reached into her backpack, unlocking her phone to see the time.
“Two minutes,” she said.
Chloé snapped, “What?”
“Two minutes,” she repeated, holding two fingers up in a peace sign. “And you'll forget all about this, don't worry.”
Adrien was looking at her oddly.
It wasn't anything new.
“For what it's worth,” she started, glancing between the two of them. “Adrien's oblivious. You need to be more direct with him.”
Chloé bristled. “Who even are you—”
She smiled. “A ghost.”