The Name on the Screen

POV: Iris

I slam the front door shut, throwing the deadbolt to block out the freezing cold wind and the crushing humiliation Lucien just handed me. The metallic click of the lock echoes in the quiet entryway. I lean my forehead against the chipped wood, sucking in ragged breaths, trying to calm the wild pounding of my heart. The chill of the snow still clings to my skin, but it is nothing compared to the ice in my chest.

The house remains shrouded in gloom, save for the pale, blue flicker of the television spilling from the living room. I drag my wet boots down the short hall and peek around the archway. My mother is passed out on the worn fabric of our shabby couch, snoring softly. A drained vodka bottle rests on its side by the coffee table leg, right next to a spilled ashtray. The smell of stale alcohol and cheap cigarettes lingers in the air. She is a tragic, chaotic mess, but a sharp spike of dark gratitude hits my chest right now. At least she is unconscious. A sober mother would slur through an endless interrogation about my slime-soaked clothes and my ruined night. Tonight, I am mercifully spared.

I turn away, trudging heavily up the creaking stairs. Each step feels like lifting blocks of lead. I just want the desperate sanctuary of my tiny bedroom. The moment I cross the threshold and push the door shut, I claw at the stiff, foul-smelling fabric clinging to my skin. I rip the dirty, slime-crusted sweater over my head and hurl it into the far corner of the room. I try to shake off the memory of the careless insult, but his low voice echoes relentlessly in my mind.

He called me heavy.

The word cuts agonizingly deep. It slices straight through the thick skin I usually wear, carving much deeper than any of Sloane’s predictable, daily taunts ever could. I pace the small stretch of floor between my bed and the window, my bare arms prickling in the bedroom chill. Why do I care so deeply about the opinion of a boy I barely know? He is just a new kid. A wolf who doesn't even know I exist outside of being a convenient target for pity.

The painful truth mocks me in the silence. I care because he is the hottest guy I have ever met. My overly active, pathetic romantic imagination had already secretly started planning our imaginary wedding the second he pulled me out of the snow.

I need a distraction before my mind spirals any further into the dark. I drop into my desk chair and flip open my laptop. The screen flares to life, bathing my shadowy room in a stark, white glow. To my immense relief, a blinking message notification sits waiting for me in the corner of the screen.

BrokenToaster42.

Venting my deepest personal trauma to an anonymous online stranger feels incredibly risky. But sitting here alone, the protective shield of a digital screen makes me significantly braver than the meek, silent girl I play in the school hallways. I rub my tired eyes and decide to take the plunge. I lean closer to the monitor, bathing in its artificial warmth, and let the pathetic truth spill out.

*Me: Got slimed at a party tonight. Humiliated by the popular girls.*

The clacking of the keyboard forms a soothing rhythm against the quiet night. I keep going, letting the emotional dam break.

*Me: Then, the hot new guy at school drove me home and told me I was heavy. So yeah, epic disaster of an evening.*

The stranger's reply pops up so fast it startles a sharp gasp out of me.

*BrokenToaster42: He said WHAT?*

*BrokenToaster42: He is an idiot.*

*BrokenToaster42: For what it’s worth, I bet you looked beautiful tonight. Even with slime.*

I stare at the glowing pixels, my pulse doing a strange, sudden flutter. My chest warms. It feels nice, but I quickly type back, pointing out the obvious flaw in his logic.

*Me: You don’t even know what I look like.*

*BrokenToaster42: I don't need to. Your writing shows who you truly are on the inside. The way you express yourself, how you view the world... people with souls like that are always beautiful.*

Sitting alone in the dark, my cheeks flush with fierce, undeniable heat. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, smiling at the monitor like a lovestruck teenager. I have no idea who this person is, but their profound sweetness wraps around my bruised ego like a soft blanket.

*Me: Thank you. I really needed to hear that tonight.*

*BrokenToaster42: You don't need to thank me for telling the truth. So... this guy who drove you home. Do you actually like him?*

I pause, letting my hands hover over the worn plastic keys. Do I like Lucien? The boy makes my blood race and my knees weak, but he also makes me want to scream in pure frustration. I pour my conflicted heart straight into the chat box.

*Me: He is stupidly beautiful and gives me all the feels. It is hard to hate someone when they look like the prince from a fantasy novel and give you butterflies.*

*BrokenToaster42: A fantasy prince who calls you heavy? Sounds more like a toad to me.*

A genuine laugh escapes my throat. I quickly clap a hand over my mouth, terrified of waking my mother downstairs. The heavy tension finally drains from my stiff shoulders. I lean back in my chair, firing off another message.

*Me: Maybe he is under a curse. Doomed to say the wrong thing at the exact wrong moment.*

*BrokenToaster42: Curses can be broken.*

*Me: By true love's kiss?*

*BrokenToaster42: Only if the person deserves it. Not all princes are worth saving.*

We spend the next hour effortlessly joking back and forth about fairy tale tropes and bad luck. His fierce, digital protectiveness feels sweet and grounding. For a little while, I forget about the cold walk to the door, the sticky slime in my hair, and the cruel laughter in the bathroom. But eventually, the sheer exhaustion of the long day catches up to me. My eyes grow heavy, the screen blurring at the edges. I stretch my arms above my head and type out a reluctant farewell.

*Me: You are sweet. I really need to get some sleep, though. I have to face the dread of school tomorrow.*

I wait for his usual quick response. It arrives a second later, but the words send the blood freezing in my veins.

*BrokenToaster42: Sweet dreams, Iris.*

My body locks up in the desk chair. My breath hitches, trapping itself tight in my lungs. My wide eyes stay glued in horror to the glowing screen.

Iris.

He used my real name. Panic spikes hard and fast, a sudden adrenaline rush that makes my hands shake. I grab my computer mouse and frantically scroll back through the entirety of our chat history. Line after line of text blurs past my vision. I scan every single message, desperately checking to see if I made a mistake. I search for a slip-up, a casual mention of my own name during our previous late-night talks.

Nothing.

I reach the very beginning of our interactions. The terrifying reality crashes down on my shoulders, heavy and suffocating. I never, at any point, told this stranger my real name. My fingers tremble over the keyboard as I type out a frantic response.

*Me: How do you know my name?*

I hit send. The digital cursor blinks back at me.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Agonizing minutes stretch on in deafening silence. The screen remains static. No incoming typing bubble. No new message alert. Did he simply fall asleep? Or did he realize his catastrophic mistake and vanish into the digital ether?

A sickening tight knot forms in the pit of my stomach. The walls of my tiny bedroom suddenly feel like they are closing in on me. My mouth goes dry as sandpaper. This is someone who goes to Grimstone. They know me. They know exactly who they are talking to right now.

I slam the laptop shut, shoving it away like it might bite me. My chest heaves in the quiet darkness of my bedroom. I know I cannot call in sick tomorrow to hide in my bed. I have to brave those treacherous hallways. I have to walk through the front doors and pray to God I haven't just spent the entire night pouring my deepest, darkest secrets right into the waiting hands of Sloane or one of her cruel minions. Or worse, maybe the entire school will know exactly what a desperate loser I am by first period.