Chapter 4 The Versions You Created

The past had a way of slipping into the present when you weren't paying attention.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't obvious.

It came in small, insidious ways-the way a song played in a coffee shop and made your stomach clench, the way a certain cologne in the air sent your pulse skittering, the way a simple phrase could unravel everything you thought you had buried.

For Elara, it was happening again.

And this time, she wasn't sure she could stop it.

---

Memory is a Fragile Thing

The next morning, Elara woke up with the feeling that something was missing.

She stared at her phone, but there were no messages. No traces of the ones from the night before.

Had she imagined them?

No.

They had been real.

Just like the last time.

Just like the messages that kept disappearing before she could prove they existed at all.

Elara ran a hand through her hair, exhaling slowly.

She knew what this was. Gaslighting.

The problem was, she didn't know who was doing it.

Was it Atlas? Or was it something worse-was it her own mind?

She swallowed hard and pulled on her jacket.

She wasn't going to spiral.

Not today.

---

The Unfinished Versions of Us(Flashback: 1 Year Ago)

"Elara, don't you see? I know you better than you know yourself."

Atlas had said it like it was a gift, like it was something beautiful.

They had been standing in her bedroom, the late afternoon sunlight turning everything gold. She had been crying, but she couldn't remember why.

She only remembered his voice, warm and steady, filling in the spaces where her thoughts were starting to fray.

"You overthink too much," he had murmured, brushing a tear from her cheek. "You let your emotions twist things into something they're not."

She had sniffled. "I-"

"I'm not saying you're wrong," he had added quickly, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him. "I'm saying your version of the truth isn't always the real one."

That was how it had always been with Atlas.

Soft corrections. Gentle rewriting.

A slow, careful erosion of the person she had once been.

---

The Artist Who Draws Ghosts

"You look like you didn't sleep."

Elara blinked and turned to see Aiden leaning against a sculpture pedestal, watching her.

She wasn't sure when she had ended up in the art studio again.

It was becoming a habit.

"I'm fine," she muttered, setting her bag down.

Aiden arched a brow but didn't push. Instead, he flipped open his sketchbook, pencil gliding over the page with effortless ease.

Elara hesitated, then sat across from him.

He worked in silence, his gaze flickering up at her every so often, like he was **mapping her out.**

After a while, he asked, "Do you ever wonder what people see when they look at you?"

Elara stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Aiden didn't stop drawing. "People don't see themselves the way they really are. They see the version that's been shaped by everyone else."

Her breath caught.

Aiden glanced at her then, something unreadable in his expression. "What version did he create?"

She felt like the air had been sucked from the room.

Aiden had never asked about Atlas. Never mentioned him.

And yet, he knew.

Elara's fingers curled into fists. "I don't want to talk about him."

Aiden nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then let's not."

But when he turned his sketchbook around, Elara's stomach dropped.

It was her again.

But this time, the drawing was different.

She wasn't the soft, bright-eyed girl from before.

She looked fractured.

Like she was being pulled in two different directions.

Like she was trapped between versions of herself, unsure which one to be.

Elara swallowed hard. "Why do you keep drawing me?"

Aiden held her gaze.

"Because you don't know what you look like yet."

---

##The Past Refuses to Stay Buried

That night, when Elara returned to her dorm, she hesitated before unlocking the door.

There was a feeling in her chest she couldn't shake- like something was waiting for her.

She stepped inside.

The room was dark, Mia's bed empty.

She exhaled, shaking her head. I'm being paranoid.

She flipped on the light-

And froze.

A single polaroid was taped to her mirror.

It was a photo of her and Atlas.

From over a year ago.

The edges were frayed, like it had been carried around for a long time.

Her stomach twisted.

She had thrown all their photos away.

Every. Last. One.

And yet, here it was.

A cold wave of nausea rolled through her.

She reached out, her fingers brushing the surface-

Her phone vibrated.

She yanked it out of her pocket, her heart hammering.

Another unknown number.

One new message.

Did you really think you could erase me?

Her breath hitched.

Another message followed.

I remember the real you. Do you?

The polaroid suddenly felt heavier in her hand.

Her ears rang. Her pulse raced.

And in the mirror, her own reflection looked like a stranger.