Frequencies of Us Chapter 10: Ghosts in the Glow

Noah POV

I’m alone in the AV room, the air thick with dust and the hum of old gear, my hands busy with a busted projector on the table. The bulb’s flickering, weak and yellow, throwing shadows that dance on the walls, and my fingers twist a screwdriver, tightening screws, trying to keep busy. My chest’s heavy, tight, like it’s been since last night in the gym—Mateo’s voice, rough and sharp, “Why’s she hate you?” echoing in my head. I dodged it, shut him out, and the way his eyes burned into me—hurt, mad, needing more—won’t leave me alone. My stomach’s knotted up, sour and cold, and every turn of the screwdriver feels like I’m winding myself tighter, stuck with what I didn’t say.

My hands slip, the tool clattering loud on the table, and I curse under my breath, leaning back in the chair. The room’s quiet—too quiet—and my mind drifts, pulling me back where I don’t want to go. Two years ago, me and Lena in Ortiz’s office, his voice barking, “Who cheated?” I’d been caught with notes, dumb math scribbles, and I panicked—heart slamming, palms sweaty. She was next to me, doodling hearts with Mr. Daniels’ name in her notebook, her crush spilling out on every page. I saw my out and took it—pointed at her, voice shaking, “She gave me the answers, said she’d get ’em from him.” A lie, quick and dirty, and Ortiz bought it. Her face crumpled—tears streaking down, voice breaking as she yelled, “Noah, why?” The rumors hit fast—her crush a joke, kids laughing in the halls—and her eyes turned icy, glaring at me like I’d stabbed her. I walked away, she didn’t, and that was it.

I scrub my face, hands cold, clammy, and the projector’s bulb flickers again, buzzing in my ears. My chest aches, guilt sitting heavy, because that’s why—why she hates me, why she’s after Mateo now. She’s not just mad—she’s tearing him apart to gut me, and I let it happen. My throat’s tight, a lump I can’t swallow, and I grab my laptop, needing something, anything, to fix this. My fingers shake as I plug it in, pulling up the school’s security cam feeds—hacked it last week, easy with their old passwords. I scroll through grainy footage, heart thumping, looking for proof, something to show him.

The screen jumps—hallway outside the gym, timestamped two days ago. I lean in, squinting, and there she is—Lena, ponytail bouncing, slipping past the lockers like a shadow. My breath catches, sharp and quick, and I pause it, zooming in. She’s got something in her hand—small, silver, glinting under the lights—and she stops by Mateo’s bag, left open on the bench after practice. My stomach twists, cold and fast, as she glances around, quick, then slips it in—a spray can, the kind from the video, disappearing into his stuff like it belongs there. She smirks, just a flash, and walks off, casual, like she didn’t just light a match.

My hands slam the table, the projector rattling, and I’m shaking—bad, knees wobbly, chest heaving. She’s framing him, hard proof right here, and it’s my fault—my mess spilling onto him. My heart’s pounding, loud in my ears, and I see him—gym last night, pinned under me, his breath hot, his voice cracking, “It matters!” He’s right—it does, and I’m losing him to her revenge. My fingers fumble for my phone, sweaty, clumsy, needing to tell him, warn him. I start typing—“Found her on cam, spray can in your bag, it’s Lena”—but my hands freeze, trembling, because what if he hates me for this? What if he walks away?

I shake it off, hit send anyway, the whoosh cutting through the quiet, and my chest tightens more, waiting. My eyes flick back to the screen—Lena’s smirk frozen there, mocking me—and my gut churns, panic clawing up my throat. She’s everywhere—PA, notes, now this—and she’s not stopping. My hands grip the table, knuckles white, and I feel it—her hate, heavy and sharp, slicing through us both. I should’ve told him last night, should’ve spilled it all, but I choked, and now it’s worse, piling up fast.

The room feels smaller, walls pressing in, and my breath’s short, ragged, like I can’t get enough air. My phone sits there, silent, and I stare at it, heart jumping every second it doesn’t buzz back. What if he’s done? What if he’s too mad to answer? My head’s spinning, guilt and fear mixing, and I shove the laptop away, needing to move, to breathe. I stand fast, chair scraping loud, and pace—three steps, turn, three steps, turn—the shadows stretching too long, too dark, like they’re watching me.

I stop by the window, smudged and cracked, peering out at the empty lot. My reflection stares back—pale, eyes wide, scared—and I hate it, hate how small I look. My chest’s burning, hot and tight, and I think of him—Mateo, his hands on me, his voice rough, “Trust you?” I need him to, need him with me, but I’m screwing it up, letting her win. My phone buzzes, finally, and I snatch it, hands shaky, heart slamming. It’s him—“Knew it. What now?” Relief hits, quick and warm, but it’s short—because he’s in, but we’re still stuck, still hunted.

I start typing back—“We show Ortiz, prove it”—but a noise cuts me off, low and sharp, like a door creaking down the hall. My head snaps up, heart jumping, and I freeze, listening. The AV room’s dead quiet now, just my breath, loud and uneven, filling the space. Then it comes again—creak, creak—slow, steady, getting closer. My stomach drops, icy and fast, and I back up, bumping the table, the projector clattering. My hands grip my phone, sweaty, and I squint at the door—closed, still, but the handle’s rattling, just a little, like someone’s testing it.

My throat’s dry, pulse hammering in my ears, and I step back again, hitting the wall, cold concrete biting through my jacket. The creaking stops, sudden, and the quiet’s worse—thick, heavy, waiting. My eyes dart to the window—too high, too small—and I’m trapped, chest heaving, panic clawing up my spine. Then—a thud, loud and close, shakes the door, and I jump, a gasp ripping out. The handle turns, slow, deliberate, and my heart stops, stuck in my throat. My phone slips, clattering to the floor, and the screen lights up—another text, unknown number: “You’re too late.”

My breath catches, sharp and loud, and the door cracks open—just an inch—darkness spilling through, thick and black. A shadow moves, tall, fast, and a low laugh rolls in—cold, mean, cutting through me like a blade. My legs shake, knees buckling, and I grab the table, hands trembling bad, eyes locked on that gap. The laugh grows, echoing, and something glints in the dark—metal, sharp, swinging low. My blood turns to ice, freezing me where I stand, and the door slams shut—hard, sudden—leaving silence, but it’s not empty—it’s alive, heavy with what’s coming, and I’m alone, caught, with no way out.