The air still carries the weight of Anika’s screams. The sound of her body hitting the pavement echoes inside your skull, looping, relentless, as if the city itself refuses to let you forget. The apartment feels colder now, even with the heat of fear still clinging to your skin. Blood stains the carpet, Mindy’s hands, the memory of tonight.

She hasn’t spoken in minutes. Just sits there, fists clenched, jaw tight, staring at nothing and everything all at once. You wish you could say something, do something—but what? There’s nothing to fix. Nothing to bring Anika back.

And then, as if pulled by a magnet, her eyes find yours. Dark, unreadable, but searching.

Your breath hitches. She’s always been good at reading people. Horror movies, killers, survivors… and you.

It’s not like you’ve ever said it out loud. That would’ve been stupid. The stars were never aligned for you and Mindy Meeks-Martin, not when she had Anika, not when Ghostface is out there turning lives into slasher reels. But maybe you never had to say it. Maybe it’s always been written all over your face—the way you look at her, the way your gaze lingers too long, the way your voice sounds a little different when you say her name.

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of her stare. Can she see it? The way your chest tightens, the way your heart aches, not just for Anika’s loss—but for her?

Mindy finally exhales, a shaky, bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Tonight sucks.”

You almost laugh too, but it gets caught in your throat. “Yeah… yeah, it really does.”

And then, just for a moment, she leans into you—just enough that you feel her warmth, just enough that the silence between you doesn’t feel so unbearable. Just enough that it makes you wonder…

Does she already know?