Chapter 141: Meeting Sara

Chapter 141: Meeting Sara CLARK POV I’m currently on the flight, somewhere above the clouds, heading to Memoville. My ears keep popping, my stomach’s doing this weird anxious-excited flip, and honestly, I still can’t believe it’s happening. After all the chaos, after everything—I’m actually on my way. Sara’s plane was scheduled to land thirty minutes before mine, so she promised she’d wait for me at the airport. I’m kind of losing it thinking about finally meeting her in person after all those endless texts, late-night calls, and half-sent memes. She said she’d bring a stupid sign like in the movies. I’m hoping she’s kidding... but honestly? I wouldn’t even care. I just can’t wait to see her. The drive to the airport was a mess—emotional and chaotic, like everything else in my life lately. Mom couldn’t come because of some "super important meeting," which I get, but it still stung a little. So it was just Dad and Clare driving me. You’d think she’d be nice, knowing it’s a big day, the last time we’d see each other for months, but nope. Clare was Clare. And by that I mean a complete menace. We fought over who’d sit in the front seat—like full-blown war—and of course Dad took my side, said I should ride shotgun since I was the one leaving. Said it might be the last time I get to "chauffeur" him for a while. I smiled. Clare pouted. Then retaliated by sitting directly behind me and pulling my hair every chance she got like we were eight again. She kept kicking my seat too. And when I told her to stop acting like a gremlin, she leaned forward, whispered in the creepiest voice possible, "I am the goblin under your bed," then knocked me in the head with her giant-ass water bottle. I wanted to laugh, but the lump in my throat was already too big. Truth is, I could tell she was bummed. She tried to play it off, tried to be all tough and sarcastic, but I’ve known her since birth. She kept looking out the window like it owed her an explanation, fidgeting with the threads on her hoodie sleeve. She gets quiet when she’s upset—not the usual loud, dramatic Clare. She had that look like she wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out how. And me? I didn’t know what to say either. What do you say when you’ve lied to the one person who knows you best? When you’ve stolen their place in the very college you’re heading to? I didn’t say anything. Just sat there pretending the seatbelt was suddenly very interesting. When we got to the airport, Dad helped unload my stuff. He gave me this half-awkward, half-bear hug and said something like, "Make us proud, son," and then ruffled my hair like I was five. Typical Dad. Clare just stood there, arms crossed. I turned to her, and for a second, I thought she was going to hug me. She took one step forward—then flicked my forehead instead. "Don’t die or anything, nerd," she said. "Don’t miss me too much, goblin," I shot back. She rolled her eyes, but her lip twitched. I saw it. The almost-smile. Then I turned and walked through the gate. I didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Because if I did, I might have changed my mind. Most of the people on this flight looked excited—giddy even. A few were scrolling through campus maps on their tablets, others were buried in Memoville orientation guides, chatting about dorms and professors. Most of them looked around my age. I figured a good chunk were first-years like me. Or... like I’m pretending to be. Everyone here was buzzing about the future. But me? I was trying not to let the nausea crawling up my throat reach my face. It hit me again—how big this intake really was. Dozens, maybe hundreds of students were arriving today alone. The university had taken a lot of students wouldn’t it have an override? Ooh well easier to tamper with the filing system and not get caught. ****** We’d land at the airport and I’d thought—surely the plane must’ve been full, right? Nope. But stepping off that jet into the terminal... now that was packed. It felt like the whole world had come here. Every single gate, every baggage carousel, every inch of space crammed with new arrivals and local faces. But something about it was off. There were travelers in weekend clothes, lugging backpacks and suitcases, chatting with sleepy excitement. But then I saw others—people who didn’t look like ordinary travelers. Their arrival carried an aura of something ... older, more intense. They scanned us arriving students with eyes that glinted too sharply. They looked excited—hungrily excited—as if we were fresh game. The vibe sent a chill up my spine. Then there were the locals. They had model faces, bodies chiseled as if carved by artists. Women with hourglass figures that practically glowed, eyes so bright they caught and held light. Men with strong jaws, lean muscles, confidence in the way they walked. They looked like they belonged in fashion spreads—and yet, they weren’t posing for any camera. They were the camera. And a few others—pale. Too pale. Like they’d never seen the sun. Their skin was ghost-white, almost translucent. I reminded myself: people come in all colors and shades. I chalked it up to my "scary stalker" observation skills—something Clare always teased me about. But something deeper stirred beneath my gut, telling me this was more than harmless attention. There was a hunger in those stares. I tried letting it go, focused on the brightly lit signs welcoming us: "Welcome to Ziprey"—the city. The university had sprawled its red carpet out: smiling greeters holding signs, roving student volunteers with clipboards asking about arrival programs. One lady, especially, caught my attention. She had a tight, too-perfect smile plastered on her face, one that whispered something’s wrong rather than welcome. But her voice—her tone—was flat, polite, almost pitying. "Welcome to Ziprey," she crooned. "Hope you enjoy your stay." "Force-smile bingo!" I mumbled to myself, glancing at her eyes. Something told me she wasn’t just overworked. Maybe over-eager to show everything was normal. I shook my head. Overthinking, I tried to act casual as I made my way to the baggage hall, scanning for Sara. Finally, I heard her voice —a lilting, familiar sound that made my chest tighten. "Clark!" She waved from just behind the crowd, eyes lit hot and bright. Petite, still fully herself, newly filled out. She was two or three inches shorter than me, but her energy—awesome young energy, the sort that sparks excitement in you—made her tower. I broke into a grin, weaving through the crowd. She practically launched herself at me, arms squeezing my waist like no one else ever could. "You’re here! I knew it!" she said, voice dancing with joy. I laughed, surprised at how much relief washed over me. It wasn’t just Sara I was crossing continents for—it was this moment of certainty, of normalcy. That tangible connection. In a sea of strange glamour and unsettling eyes, there she was: real. With olive skin, curly brown hair sparkling gold in the sunlight, smiling up at me like—like I actually mattered. Our reunion broke the tension, melted the knives in my gut. The airport grew warmer, more alive. Strangers hustled around us, but Sara’s presence turned the crowd into background noise. We hugged again, picking up the thread of our weekends’ long digital friendship and weaving it into real life. We collected our bags—hers smaller, a pink tote, mine a giant black roller—then headed toward the exit in zip rates. The terminal doors opened, welcoming us to... something new. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d read everyone’s body language too well. That too-scheme smile, that too-bright crowd, those clothes that whispered magazine art more than daily living—this place was built for more than mundane academics. Even the terminal lighting seemed too crisp, too architect-designed, almost surgical. "Hey, you okay?" Sara asked as we walked into ground transport. "Yeah," I replied. "Just... overwhelmed." "Ziprey’s big like that," she laughed. "But here." She pulled out her phone and handed it over. "This is your campus map. You should bookmark this. My dorm’s here—right in building S." She placed fingers on the screen. "Later, we can walk around. I want us to see everything: the lake, the old library, that secret rooftop garden." She brightened my world again. The city and its airport may have been... creepy, but Sara was not. Sara was sunlight, warm and bursting with possibility. The promise was real: we were stepping into a new life together—even if I was pretending to be someone else to do it. Still, I kept glancing over my shoulder as we navigated the throng of riders, taxis, and university shuttles. Were those pale faces still watching? Were they following? What about that lady’s smile? I tried to let it go. There’s a time and a place for paranoia. Maybe this was it. We climbed into a shuttle labeled Memoville Express, and as the bus pulled away, I looked back at the airport—a giant glossy cave filled with people and lights. I wanted so badly to believe I’d never see that crowd again. That Sara and I could slip under the radar and just be students. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t ignore the thought: out in the crowd’s glare, someone knew thing. Maybe that strange airport glare was a welcome. Or maybe a warning. For now, though, I shoved the worry aside and turned to Sara, who was already pointing out buildings and asking excited questions. My pulse steadied, tension diffused. With her by my side, maybe I could make this place ours—even if the eyes watching never stopped.