I confronted De’Angelo. Asked him straight:

“Am I super fucked? Is the thing just going to keep coming after me?”

He didn’t lie. 

"Uh- No. Not yet, there is still time. And yes—The Cult of Adriel has targeted you. They aren't the type to give up. At all”

He said the Cult isn’t new. They’ve existed for millennia, changing names and disguises. But they always come through people like me—emotionally compromised, intimately entangled, spiritually open.

They plant symbols in dreams. Use lovers' voices as access points. Dorian’s voice—the one that turned strange in my dream—that wasn’t just a metaphor.

It was Adriel trying to speak through someone I trust.

“The red garden is a summoning dream,” De’Angelo told me.
“Once the roses bloom red, it means the gate has begun to open inside you.”

I asked if this had happened with the woman he worked with before.
He stared blankly at me before speaking.
He just said: “She killed herself before we could get this far.”

I’m not sure if that means I’m strong…

…or already lost.

—V

 Today was… good. No weird dreams. No heavy feelings. Just coffee, sunshine, and a phone call from Dorian where he told me his professor finally graded his paper (he got an A — obviously).

Sometimes I forget how nice normal can be. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath all day.

I want to hold onto this feeling. I want more of these soft, simple days.

Even if they don’t last forever.

The Link (But Not Really)

 I told Dorian about this blog today.

Well… not everything about it.
I just said, “Hey, I started a little blog—mostly to process dreams, feelings, and practice my journalism voice.”

Which isn’t untrue.
Just… not all the truth.

He lit up, of course. Asked if he could read it. Said he wanted to see what my “mind looks like in typewriter font.”

I laughed, then panicked internally, then gave him this very dramatic monologue about how this blog is like my personal diary and I needed to keep it private for now.

He pouted. Just a little. That soft, theatrical kind of pout that never really asks for anything, just expresses hope. But he respected it. Of course he did.

“You don’t have to show me,” he said. “Just promise if something’s heavy, you’ll talk to me. I’m always here, okay?”

God, I love how gentle he is. Always. He never pushes, even when he could. Never demands to be let in. Just opens his hands and waits.

He thinks I’m journaling because of school stress. Maybe some subconscious dream exploration. Something cute. Something quirky.

He doesn’t know it’s because my shadow has started moving faster than I do.

Because I wake up with words in my mouth I didn’t put there.
Because I need to write it all down before the I that’s writing disappears.

But still… when he said he’s always there, I believed him.
Even if I don’t say everything out loud.

Even if I’m scared the next time I look in the mirror, something will be staring back.

Laundry Lessons

 Note to self: NEVER put red socks in with white sheets. Unless you like your bed looking like a Valentine’s Day massacre.

Also, dryers really do eat socks. I counted. I started with six pairs. I now have nine single socks and no matches. I feel betrayed.

On the plus side, I met this sweet old woman in the laundromat who told me she’s been married 53 years and swears the key is letting each other have secrets. That stuck with me. I don’t know if I agree, but… maybe it makes sense.

Wet dream gone wrong ig(i wish I was joking)

 This one started sweet.

My boyfriend and I were tangled up in each other like we were during spring-break. His hand brushed my cheek, while the other moved my hips to me his. His lips in the crook of my neck. The slow creaking of the bed is all that echoed though my ears, my hands falling down his back leaving scratch marks in its wake. He whispered my name in that way he only does when it’s just us—soft, warm, safe. 

And then…

He said it again. But colder.
Like a glitch in the audio.

I looked up, and his eyes were wrong. Not just dark—empty. His face didn’t move, but his mouth opened wider than it should. And this thing spoke through him. Not in English. Not in words.

But I understood anyway.

“ Please can I come inside? Let me in Evangeline. ”

I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

When I woke up, Dorian was actually calling me. I almost didn’t answer.

His voice was normal. But now I wonder—
What if it’s learning how to sound like him?

 Met with De’Angelo tonight. Finally. I didn’t expect him to believe me—not really. But when I told him about the humming, the dreams, the window… he didn’t even blink.

He just said, “It’s starting again.”

I asked what “it” was. He looked at me for a long time. Then he pulled out this old notebook. Leather-bound. Smelled like dust and cedar. (Of course.) Inside were pages of symbols, dates, names. Names that aren’t alive anymore.

My name was in it. Scribbled halfway down a page like it was waiting.

I’m scared.
But also? I’ve never felt more seen.

 I woke up speaking.

I had a voice memo running on my phone. At 3:09 a.m., I said—clear as day:

“Adriel, Let me be the thorns for your roses.”

It wasn’t sleep-talking. My voice was steady, focused, aware. I even paused like I was waiting for someone to respond.

Something in the mirror’s been watching me. Not like metaphor-watching. Like, pausing when I do, blinking at the wrong time, smiling when I’m not kind of watching.

I’ve started covering the mirrors at night. But in the morning, the sheets are pulled off. Every time. Neatly. Precisely. Like someone wanted me to see myself again.

Sometimes, I think I’m the one who’s missing. And this—whatever this is—it’s just trying to replace me before I notice.

Note, don’t look for me in reflections.

—V