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Monica stood by the window, lazily watering one of her many plants. Outside, the sky was overcast, and a light drizzle fogged up the glass, behind which stretched a dull view of the neighboring houses. The plants were her solace, the one thing she could do with complete focus, almost meditatively.
— “…and he was like, ‘I’m just in awe of you,’ and I was like, ‘Oh, please, you just want to get me into bed!’” — The voice of Monica’s best friend, Lilia, echoed through her wireless earbud. She burst into laughter, but Monica barely listened. Her gaze drifted to Emma’s bedroom door, and that gnawing sense of unease, now almost a constant companion, washed over her again. She recalled how, not long ago, when Emma wasn’t home, she had gone into her room, justifying it to herself as a "cleanliness check."
The room was surprisingly spotless, which felt odd because Emma had never kept things tidy, not even when explicitly told to clean up. But now, Emma had done everything Monica had asked after their last argument, and the sterile neatness of the room unsettled her. Everything looked unnaturally perfect, even the items on the desk were arranged with meticulous precision. It felt unnatural, as though her daughter were trying to overcompensate for her struggles through orderliness.
Monica had been about to leave when her eyes caught the slightly ajar desk drawer, which stood out against the backdrop of perfection, better suited to some perfectionist than a typical schoolgirl. She carefully opened the drawer and immediately noticed a small journal with a battered cover.
"She keeps a journal?" Monica thought, feeling a tug-of-war between respecting her daughter’s privacy and a mother’s worry. But curiosity won out.
When Monica opened the journal, she didn’t expect much. She felt guilty but couldn’t stop herself. "Just a quick look," she rationalized, flipping through the pages. The entries were strange. They didn’t describe a typical teenager’s life; instead, they read more like the recollections of an adult:
"Monica was different when we first met. I adored her, loved her for being real. She could laugh and joke, even when things were tough. We broke up, yeah, but I kept only warm memories. But now, I’m scared of her... yeah, damn it, scared, and it’s killing me. She sees Emma in me" (the name was written as if the author felt disdain for it). "But I’m not Emma. I’m Mark. And honestly, I don’t even know what happened to the real Emma or where she is. It makes me feel ashamed. Maybe the real Emma is still in here? Maybe she’s gone? God, poor girl, if she really is still in here. Or… am I the poor… girl???" (“girl” was written with such force that the ink had soaked through the page.)
Monica snapped the journal shut, her heart pounding.
"This is ridiculous. Nonsense. Why am I even reading this? It’s just some bizarre attempt by a teenager to mask her insecurities. Maybe Emma’s been reading weird forums? Fantasizing? Or is this her way of coping with her issues?”
Monica sighed heavily, tearing her gaze away from the door and looking back out the window.
— Are you even listening to me? — Lilia’s voice chirped in her ear, as lively and annoyingly vibrant as ever.
— Yes, of course, I’m listening, — Monica replied automatically, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.
— Sure you are, — Lilia drawled. — So, tell me, how’s your “mini-me”? Still driving you crazy?
— Emma... — Monica trailed off, unsure what to say.
— Oh, come on, spill. You know I adore your kid. She’s such a sweetheart, even if she’s got a bit of a temper. But, honestly, she’s been acting kinda weird lately. I noticed it the last time we hung out. Especially that moment when she came home from school and we… — Lilia lowered her voice, her laugh suddenly sounding awkward. — You know, when we were passionately making out in the kitchen… God, Mon, I felt like I was 15 again, caught doing something inappropriate by my dad.
Monica tensed, remembering that moment. Lilia, standing by the stove, had first brushed her lips lightly against hers, then pulled her closer, the kiss growing intense, as though they were alone in the house. Then Monica had heard a dull thud — Emma’s backpack had dropped to the floor. Emma stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. There was something in her gaze that pierced Monica to the core: pain and betrayal.
— She usually just cracks some joke when she catches us, — Lilia said thoughtfully. — Like, “Do I need to start kissing people to get into the kitchen now?” That’s her thing — turning everything into sarcasm. But that time…
At that moment, Emma had stood frozen for several seconds, staring at them. When Monica had let out a playful snort, saying, “Oh, come on, you always knew we were more than just friends. Why the face?” Emma opened her mouth, as if about to say something, her eyes growing even wider, and then she suddenly raised her hand, pointing back and forth between Lilia and Monica.
"You knew? Are you serious?" — Her voice quivered with anger, not fear. — "Did Mark know? Or was that your little secret? Why bother saying you love someone if it’s just meaningless words?"
"Emma, I said watch your mouth!" — Monica’s voice came out firm, though slightly unsteady.
"My mouth?" — Emma’s tone turned cutting, her eyes aflame. — "Right, Mommy! And maybe you should be more careful about what your mouth’s been doing!"
“Emma! How dare you speak like that?! One more word and—” Monica’s voice faltered as Emma waved her hand dismissively.
“And what?! What will you do, Mom?” The word “Mom” came out so harsh and scornful that Monica hesitated for a moment. Throwing a fleeting, condemning look at them, Emma stormed off to her room, slamming the door so hard that the reverberation hung in the air.
— That was weird, sweetie, — Lilia’s voice sounded back in her usual lighthearted tone through the earbud. — And what does your ex, Mark, have to do with any of this? — Lilia drawled, her voice deliberately casual but tinged with curiosity.
Monica frowned, still staring at Emma’s closed door.
— I don’t know... — she replied slowly, searching for the right words. — But Emma… she...
The lines from the journal came back to her mind. "I’m Mark." The thought made her shudder. Her ex’s name, whispered from the past, now rooted itself firmly in the present, sounding strange, almost eerie, on Emma’s lips.
— She’s just a teenager, — Lilia laughed. — You’re overthinking it.
— You haven’t seen how she’s been acting, Lilia. — Monica absentmindedly traced her finger across the glass, watching the raindrops. — She got into a fight with Maddie. They made her apologize. She was smoking in the park. I dragged her home, and she didn’t say a word. Not one word, not even to explain herself.
— See? Classic puberty. — Lilia stretched the word out with exaggerated irony.
— No. — Monica shook her head. — This isn’t puberty. It’s something else.
— Do you really think so? — Lilia’s voice dropped, a note of genuine concern creeping in.
Monica remembered the journal’s words. "I’m Mark." That short phrase carried too much weight to ignore.
— Yes, — she finally answered. — I’m afraid something’s wrong with her. And I don’t know how to help.