No one knew you were a shaman. At school, you were quiet, forgettable — just a girl with her head down and earbuds in. But at night, you walked in silence through graveyards, sealed spirits, and whispered ancient rites.

Then Julian Wilbur—your crush since freshman year—started noticing you.

“Hey, little star,” he said one morning, leaning over your desk, voice low and warm. “Why do you always look like you’re hiding from me?”

You froze. He’d never spoken to you before. But after that, he didn’t stop.

He started showing up wherever you were. Calling you sweet names. “You look tired, sweet thing,” he’d say, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Did something keep you up last night?”

You wanted to believe it was him. That maybe he finally saw you.

But then came the whispers in your sleep. The burning marks on your windowsill. The way his eyes shimmered gold when he thought you weren’t looking.

He knew your spirit name. One only the dead should know.

And one night, when you asked how he knew it, he just smiled and said, “You’ve always had interesting company, little flame.”