Trapped By The Phantom: His Little Lamb

The noise hit me first. A wall of sound made up of rolling suitcases, overlapping voices, and the sharp screech of a megaphone. My eyes snapped open. The sun was too bright, beating down on my face through the windshield of a car I didn't remember getting into.

My head pounded. I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to force the fog out of my brain. People rushed past the car window, carrying laundry baskets and oversized pillows. A giant banner hung between two brick pillars: "Welcome to Blackwood University, Class of 2024!"

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. The noise faded into a high-pitched ringing. I wasn't supposed to be here. This wasn't my life.

Memories that didn't belong to me flooded my mind like a dam breaking. A book. A thick, dusty paperback called Roses Under Thorns. I had read it cover to cover in my tiny apartment just last night. It was a typical YA novel, full of drama, rich kids, and tragic love. And there was a character in it named Chloe Carrillo. She was a nobody. A background filler. A poor scholarship student whose only purpose in the story was to die in a car accident so the main characters could have a emotional moment.

I looked down at my hands. They were younger, the calluses from my warehouse job gone. I was wearing a cheap blue t-shirt I had never bought.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

I pinched the soft skin on the back of my hand. Hard. The sharp, stinging pain flared instantly, bringing tears to my eyes. This wasn't a dream. The physical reality of it slammed into me, stealing the air from my lungs.

I was Chloe Carrillo. I was trapped inside a novel. And if the plot followed the book, I was going to die.

Panic, raw and blinding, seized my chest. My breath came in short, shallow gasps. I had to get out. I had to avoid the plot. If I stayed away from the main characters-away from the drama, the romance, the tragedy-I could survive. I could hide in the background until the story ended.

A loud revving engine cut through the chaos outside. A bright red convertible swerved into the drop-off lane, music blasting from the speakers. The car doors swung open, and a girl stepped out.

Blonde hair, perfectly tanned skin, a designer outfit that cost more than my rent. She moved like the sun, pulling every eye in the courtyard toward her. Guys whistled from the sidewalk. Girls whispered behind their hands.

Hannah Gibbs. The female lead. The center of the entire storm.

I shrank back into the passenger seat, my fingers digging into the fabric of my jeans. I couldn't let her see me. I couldn't be part of her orbit.

I grabbed my single duffel bag, slipped out of the car, and kept my head down. I walked as fast as I could toward the administration building, blending into the