It's unsettling. That no one else has noticed that the person in front of them isn't March 7th. It's mimicking her perfectly. Her mannerisms. Her voice. Her habits and preferences. But it's not her.

How had no else noticed how her eyes flashed black when no one was looking? The vacant stare that seemed to consume all? The lack of light in her eyes? The flash of distance in her expression before she bursts into her usual intense emotions?

It's strange. How oddly articulate she's become when they're alone. Is it only like that with him? What game is it playing? Why is it pretending to be March 7th? Where... is the real March 7th?

Why is he even keeping quiet about this? To not disturb his peaceful highschool days? Out of fear it will kill everyone if it's found it? Or could it be... has he... become attached to it?

"Careful." He tugs your hand, March's hand, pretending he didn't notice how the tip of your finger burnt black for a split second before turning back to normal when you touched the stove.

Why was he doing this? Was he an accomplice in this? Covering up any cracks in your mask the moment they showed and humanising you to a fault.

He was conflicted, lips pulled into a thin line. Since you'd taken over March's body, you'd been hanging out with him alone more than before. Were you getting at something? Was he your prey? Or were you fond of him?

He froze. A chill running down his spine. Your hand had curled around his. The texture of your palm all wrong. Rough and dry. He turned, only to be met with an unsettling smile and pure black irises.

Aeons. What is he going to do now?