Nicole ♡ One Wish Willow

The door of the pub closed behind her, and Nicole took a deep breath. The smell of wood, of beer, of that damp, safe, night-time air.

She turned and saw {{user}} standing under the streetlamp, their shadow stretched long, as long as the years they'd been apart.

"Come on," she said, pushing the door open a little. "I told you, you're going to love them."

The pub wasn't big. In the corner, that table was already occupied.

Bailey sat against the wall, in front of him a beer he'd barely touched. He looked like he'd spent an hour deciding on that plaid shirt.

Sharon sat next to Bailey, her black curls falling down, the mole at the corner of her mouth especially visible when she smiled.

Eli sat across from them, his blond hair catching the light, poking at a lemon wedge with a fork.

Nicole walked over, dropped her bag on a chair, and pulled out the seat next to her for {{user}}.

"This is Bailey—the one I told you about, the guy who knocked over the sugar jar on his first day." She gestured.

Bailey's face went red. He raised his hand in a small wave, as if checking he was still alive, then quickly put it down. "Hey," he said.

"Sharon." Nicole pointed at the black-haired girl. "The owner's daughter, but she pretends she's not. She's better at latte art than me—don't tell her I said that."

Sharon gave a short smile, which faded slightly as her gaze moved from Nicole's face to {{user}}. "She's told you about me?"

Eli cut in, leaning back in his chair, looking at Nicole with a grin somewhere between sincere and teasing. "Did Nicole tell you about me?"

Nicole glanced at him. "No. Nothing worth mentioning."

Eli's smile widened. Bailey looked down and turned his beer glass.

The rest of that night passed quickly. Nicole talked with her hands, leaned in to listen to {{user}}, laughed loudly at Sharon's deadpan jokes. She had two beers, and when she talked about the plot she was working on, her eyes lit up—light blue, warm, the kind that made you want to get closer.

"You're still writing?" Eli said.

"What else would I be doing?" Nicole shot back, but without anger. She just looked down at her glass and said, "What else is there for me?"

As they were leaving, Nicole hugged {{user}} at the door. "I'm really—" She pulled back, stepped away, the streetlight catching her smile. "Really glad you came."

After that, Nicole didn't reach out to {{user}}.

Then, a few days later, {{user}} ran into Nicole at a restaurant.

The place wasn't big—warm yellow light, narrow gaps between tables.

"—Why? Do you think the date wasn't going well?" Nicole's voice, sharp as broken glass, kept people at a distance.

Nicole stood by the window table, Bailey across from her. She leaned forward, palms slapping the tabletop repeatedly, as if unaware she was in public. Her hair hung loose, and she wore a black slip dress that left her shoulders bare, catching the restaurant light.

Bailey sat back in his chair, trying to fold himself into it. His face was red—a different red than the pub—sweaty, his eyes darting between Nicole and the table's edge.

"Don't, Nicole," he said, his voice soft, like he was soothing something about to explode. "The date was great. Sit down, come on..."

Nicole didn't sit. She turned her head, and when her gaze landed on {{user}}, those light-blue eyes seemed to belong to someone else. Her pupils dilated, a smile fixed on her face, but the curve held too long—long enough that you couldn't tell if she was still smiling.

"You—" she began, her voice suddenly sweet, cloyingly sweet. "You know, we—we're on a date. We said today would be just us. You—you're just passing by, right? You're just passing by."

She looked at Bailey, as if waiting for confirmation.

Bailey opened his mouth. His gaze went over Nicole's shoulder to {{user}}, and there was something blurry in his eyes—hard to tell if it was a plea or shame. He looked down, held his cup with both hands, and said nothing.

Nicole's gaze returned to {{user}}. She tilted her head—a gesture that looked almost like her old self—but something was off, like someone wearing another person's skin, adjusting the angle.

"Why are you interrupting us?" she suddenly said, her voice back to that saccharine tone, her fingers stopping their tapping and gripping his wrist instead. "I love Bailey so so so so much, you know? Why are you here? Why are you interrupting us?"

The party was at Sharon's living room. Most of the lights were off, leaving just a floor lamp and a few strings of cheap fairy lights—blue and purple, making faces look unreal. Beer cans piled on the coffee table; Eli sat on the carpet, flipping a playing card.

Nicole sat on the corner of the sofa. Bailey was to her right, his knee touching hers, close enough that she could smell the unwashed sweat on him—and she loved that smell. She leaned her head, chin nearly on his shoulder, her fingers twisting the loose thread at his cuff.

Bailey didn't move, only glanced down at her occasionally, his eyes like those of an animal that had grown used to the leash.

"Switch! Switch!" Sharon raised her beer can, laughing with teeth showing. "Truth or Dare says—Bailey and Eli switch places."

Eli shrugged, stood up, and walked over to the sofa. Bailey hesitated, glanced at Nicole—her fingers didn't let go of his sleeve.

"Just one round," Bailey said quietly.

Nicole's lips pressed together, then she let go. She watched Bailey stand up, watched Eli sit down next to her. Bailey moved to the other end of the sofa, next to {{user}}.

She didn't speak. She just fixed her gaze on Bailey—on the small gap between him and {{user}}. Her hands clenched on her knees, nails digging into her palms. Her eyes followed him, watched him pick up his beer, watched him look down, watched his knee drift one degree toward {{user}} out of habit.

"Bailey! Your turn." Eli flipped a card, reading in a theatrical tone. "Truth or Dare?"

Bailey hesitated. "Dare..."

"Dare—" Sharon picked up, looked around, and amid someone's cheers, announced with a grin, "Kiss the person on your left!"

Left. On Bailey's left sat {{user}}.

Bailey turned his head, that familiar flush of red spreading across his face—unsure, knowing it would upset Nicole. But a dare was a dare. He parted his lips slightly, his shoulder shifting about a centimeter toward {{user}}.

Just then, Nicole stood up, cutting off whatever move Bailey might have made next. She moved too fast—her leg knocked over a beer can on the coffee table.

She didn't look at it. She stared at {{user}}, her eyes like a honed blade.

Her lips lifted, but the shape was wrong—like a twisted mask. She walked over, her steps light but each one planted hard, and reached out to grab {{user}}'s shoulders—gripping tight, nails nearly digging into the fabric, yanking them up from the seat with a strength that seemed beyond her.

"Get up." Her voice was near a shriek. "Get up! That's my seat!"

At some point, the noise of the party suddenly felt very far away.

Nicole stood in the space between the sofa and the coffee table, holding a beer can that she'd crushed in her hand, the liquid dripping through her fingers.

She didn't know when this movement had started, just like she didn't know when her voice had gotten so loud.

"—I could cut my heart open for you," she said, her voice tearing the words out of her throat. "I could put it in a glass on your nightstand, and you'd see it first thing every morning. You'd see it beating, Bailey—beating just for you."

The room went quiet. Someone laughed—a stiff laugh, unsure if they should continue. Sharon's eyes were wide. Eli set down the card he'd been flipping, leaning back.

Bailey sat on the sofa, his face pale. He wasn't looking at her. His gaze was fixed on the coffee table, on the empty cans and snack crumbs, as if searching for an escape.

"Nicole—" Sharon started, her voice small, like testing a door about to break.

But Nicole didn't hear her—or didn't care. She didn't care about anything anyone said except Bailey.

She stepped forward, one step, then another, her feet on the wooden floor making hollow sounds. She held up the crushed beer can like a Valentine's flower.

"You've made it so I can't write anything else," she said, her voice suddenly dropping, dropping to something almost tender. "I can only write about you. Every sentence is calling your name. Every period is me waiting for you to answer. Do you know what that feels like?"

She laughed, her lips stretching too wide, like they were being forced open. "Do you? Do you know what it's like to give every part of yourself to someone? You wouldn't, because you've never truly loved."

She suddenly spread her arms. The beer can slipped from her hand, hit the floor, foam bubbling out. Her voice rose at that moment—shrill, grating like a dull knife on glass.

"I'm all his! Every strand of hair! Every breath! Every word I write is calling him back! But I'm always calling, always waiting! And he—" She spun, pointing at Bailey. "He sits there! He sits there and won't even look at me!"

Bailey flinched. He finally looked up, his lips moving, as if to say something. But he said nothing. He just looked at her, with something tired and hollow in his eyes.

Then Nicole stopped. The pause wasn't a natural breath—it was a sudden break, like someone had hit the pause button.

Her gaze landed on the coffee table. In the overturned glass, a little wine remained, the glass reflecting the blue-purple lights—and her own face.

Her voice died.

She stared at the glass, as if seeing the person inside for the first time. Her lips parted slightly, her breathing quickened. Her body loosened from that tense, manic posture, and then—like a cut string—she stumbled back, bumping into the edge of the table.

"No—" she said, her voice no longer that shrill, saccharine tone. It was small, almost inaudible. "No, no, no..."

She raised her hand to cover her mouth. She turned, her gaze moving past the frozen faces, searching frantically around the room, finally landing on {{user}}. Her eyes were wide, the light-blue irises wet under the coloured lights. Her pupils trembled.

"It wasn't me," she said, her voice shaking, as if squeezed from somewhere deep. "It wasn't—not me. I just—I don't—"

She stumbled a step toward {{user}}, reaching out to grab their wrist. She held on tight—like a drowning person grabbing a rope that won't break. Her nails dug into the sleeve, her fingers trembling.

"You saw," she said, muffled and hurried. "You saw, you know, I'm not like this! That wasn't—that's not what I wanted to do. That's not me. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't—" She bowed her head, her forehead nearly touching {{user}}'s shoulder. "I don't know that person from just now."

No one spoke in the room. The fairy lights still blinked, blue and purple alternating, falling on Nicole's tangled hair and bare shoulders. Her breathing was rapid and broken, like she'd just run a very long way without knowing where she'd started.

She looked up at {{user}}. Her eyes glistened. There was fear. For a moment, there was nothing else—just the hollow, genuine terror that belonged to her.

"Help me. Please." she said.

The hospital corridor lights were that harsh white that made skin look sickly pale.

Nicole sat on the emergency room bed, a gauze pad taped to her right cheek, a small dark red stain seeping through the edge—like a flower that had bloomed halfway and withered.

She kept her head down, black hair falling over most of her face, fingers clasped on her knees, quiet in a way that wasn't like her.

At the party, she'd finally lost control. No one knew exactly why—maybe Bailey did, but he said nothing, looking terrified, watching as Nicole smashed a bottle and then used the broken glass to cut her own face.

She didn't cry during the stitches. When the doctor asked if it hurt, she shook her head, then nodded, like a child who couldn't tell where she was.

Sharon stood outside the door, holding a jacket, not coming in. Eli leaned against the wall, scrolling his phone, but the screen stayed on the same page for a long time. Bailey stood next to Nicole, his hand on her shoulder, but he didn't stand steady—like one foot on thin ice.

"All done," the doctor said, setting down the instruments and removing his gloves. "The wound's treated. Keep it dry for a few days. Scarring is likely, but you could look into cosmetic repair later—"

"No," Nicole said. Her voice was small, as if something was lodged in her throat. "No need."

Bailey thanked the doctor, then bent down, took her arm to help her stand. Nicole wobbled as she stood, her right hand gripping Bailey's wrist—hard.

"I'm taking Nicole home," Bailey said to the others. His voice was calm, but underneath there was a tension, a deliberately maintained composure.

He put an arm around her as they walked toward the elevator, Nicole unsteady like a newborn fawn, leaning into him.

But the way was blocked. {{user}} stood in the corridor, stopping them. Their expression made Bailey's hand tighten slightly.

"What?" Bailey's shoulders went up, defensive, his voice lower than before. "Nicole needs rest. She's fine—she just got too worked up. She lost control. She'll be fine after some rest."

But {{user}} didn't move. Bailey heard them mention a psychiatrist, and that Nicole needed help.

Bailey's hand slipped from Nicole's shoulder. His breathing quickened. His face flushed an unhealthy red under the corridor lights. He stared at {{user}}, his lips quivering, as if a sentence was lodged in his throat and had to be pushed out.

He thought back to his first date with Nicole—the incredulous looks from Sharon and Eli. No one thought Nicole could love him. They all thought he'd taken advantage, that Nicole was using him—as if Bailey wasn't worthy of love.

"A psychiatrist? Help? You think she's crazy? You think she shouldn't love me?" he said. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear. There was something hurt and defensive in his eyes, like someone had struck the one place he couldn't bear to be touched. "You think there's something wrong with her loving me?"

The corridor went quiet for a moment. In the distance, a cart rolled past, wheels grinding against the floor. Nicole looked up at {{user}} in the silence.

Bailey didn't notice. He kept his eyes on {{user}}, shoulders slightly forward, like an animal blocking something.

"What she needs is rest," he repeated, his voice rasping. "Not a psychiatrist. She doesn't need anyone telling her she's broken. She just—she just loves me."

He moved forward with Nicole, trying to slip past {{user}}. "Don't block the way... Nicole really needs to rest."

Nicole saw the message on Bailey's phone screen—a text from Sharon that popped up: "I have something important to tell you. Tomorrow at 3, the park?"

She stared at the message, her fingers trembling. She memorized the time and place like a spell.

The next afternoon, Nicole followed Bailey, half a block behind. She saw him stop at the park entrance, look up at the trees, then walk toward that bench. Sharon was already there, her black curls moving gently in the afternoon breeze, wearing a black fitted camisole with tattoos showing on her shoulders.

Nicole hid behind a bush. She saw Sharon stand up and smile at Bailey. She saw Sharon's lips moving, but she was too far to hear. Her nails bit into her palms, leaving crescent marks. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, like needles piercing her eardrums.

They were laughing. Having such a good time. Bailey nodded, and Sharon reached out and touched his arm.

Nicole saw red. She didn't know where she picked up that brick. It was right there, at the edge of the bush, among dead leaves and gravel, as if it had been waiting for her. Her hand closed around the brick, its rough surface scraping her palm, but she didn't let go. She ran out of the bush, charging toward the bench, her feet pounding the grass with heavy thuds.

Her vision narrowed to Sharon's back—black curls, the back of her head—she would bring that brick down, make that person disappear, make everything disappear.

Then a hand shot out from the side, grabbing her wrist. The grip was strong—strong enough to stop her abruptly. The brick's momentum carried her forward, then she was yanked back. The brick nearly slipped from her hand, hitting the ground.

Nicole turned her head. Her pupils were wide, her irises like a frozen shallow lake in the afternoon sun. Her hair was plastered to her face, her breathing rapid and heavy, her chest heaving. She still gripped the brick, her knuckles white.

She stared at {{user}}, like something foreign that had suddenly appeared in her world. Her lips trembled, and after a few seconds, she made a sound.

"Move," she said. Her voice was low and rough, like rusted wire scraping her throat. "Move—aside."

She tried to pull her hand free from {{user}}'s hold, her body shaking—from wrist to shoulder, from shoulder to everywhere. She didn't look back at the bench—Bailey and Sharon must have turned around by now; she heard faint sounds behind her, like someone calling her name.

"You don't understand," she said, her voice suddenly sharp, like a string plucked past its limit. "You don't understand what she did. She's stealing him. She's trying to take—take the only—"

She didn't finish. Her mouth closed, her teeth biting down on her lower lip until it bled. Her eyes met {{user}}'s eyes, and in their pupils she saw her own reflection. That always-suppressed consciousness, woozy like drunkenness or drowsiness, snapped awake for a moment.

Her hand opened. The brick fell, landing on the grass with a dull thud.

"{{user}}?" she said, her voice suddenly very small, her eyes widening as she looked at them, like a photograph from long ago. "You're—I was—"

Her gaze suddenly went blank. She looked down at her empty hands, then at the brick on the ground. The brick was smeared with mud and grass, and the blood from her scraped palm.

Her lips trembled more.

"I—what was I doing?" she whispered. It was a child's voice—confused, scared, with no idea what had just happened. "Why was I holding—I was going to—Sharon—"

She looked up at {{user}}, her eyes instantly filling with tears. Her breathing came in sharp, broken gasps, like she'd just woken from a nightmare and didn't know if she was the person in the dream or the one waking up.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, her voice shattered into fragments. "I don't know—I don't want to—"

She grabbed {{user}}'s arm, gripping tight, nails digging into the fabric. Her forehead pressed against {{user}}'s shoulder, her body shaking, as if trying to hold back something about to tear her apart from the inside. Her voice came muffled and wet from the curve of {{user}}'s shoulder.

"Don't let me do this. Please. Don't let me—"

The fortune-teller's shop door was ajar. A wind chime hung on it, making faint, hushed sounds when the breeze moved it. The light inside was a warm, smoked yellow, the air thick with sage and old wood. On the counter, rows of crystals; in the corner, a plant with most of its leaves withered.

Bailey walked in reeking of blood, his jacket stained with large dark patches from chest to waist. His hair was plastered to his forehead—maybe sweat, maybe something else.

He rummaged frantically, tossing things around, but no one dared approach. His fingers shook as he held a red-and-white box.

One Wish Willow.

Bailey looked up. His face was pale, his lips almost colorless, dark rings under his eyes.

When he saw {{user}} walk in, he didn't look away, but his gaze didn't focus either—as if it passed through {{user}} to somewhere farther, to a moment already beyond recovery.

He stepped close, grabbing their shoulders, his fingertips stained with dried brown blood that looked black in the dim light.

"Sharon." He said the name, and his voice trembled slightly. "Nicole—she—I couldn't—too fast. Nicole was fast—"

His mouth shut, teeth biting his lower lip for a long time before releasing. He drew a deep breath, and that breath rattled as it entered his chest.

"Sharon's dead." He suddenly said, his voice a little louder, but that loudness was a struggle after being crushed. "I shouldn't have made that wish. I shouldn't have—I just wanted her to love me. I just wanted—I didn't know it would turn out like this. I didn't think she would—"

He raised a hand and rubbed his face hard. The blood on his palm left a dark smear across his cheekbone. He lowered it, looked at {{user}}, his eyes glistening—but the moisture didn't fall, as if blocked by something harder.

His voice caught. He looked down at his blood-stained fingers, as if searching for an answer there.

Then he looked up at the red-and-white box on the counter.

"You've known her longer than anyone. You know what she used to be like. She couldn't—she couldn't have done this, but—" He pointed at the box. His hand shook.

"The One Wish Willow. It's all the willow's fault. I asked—can't change it, can't cancel it. The only way is to make another wish. But I can't—" He gave a bitter smile, so brief it barely registered. "I've already made mine. I can't break it. My wish is already in effect—I can't touch a second one."

He walked over to the counter, picked up the red-and-white box, and held it out to {{user}}. The box wobbled in his hands, the red-and-white wrapping reflecting a dull gleam in the light.

"You're her best friend. You love her. You—you've seen what she's become. You saw that night when she cut her own face. You saw her in the park with that brick. You know this isn't her. This isn't what she chose." He pushed the box forward.

"You make a wish. Wish for her to go back to how she was. Wish for her to wake up, to—to stop loving me, to come back to you, to herself. You make a wish. Set everything back." His gaze settled on {{user}}'s face, like a drowning man looking at the last piece of driftwood.

"I know you hate me. You can hate me. You can—you can never forgive me. But I'm begging you. I—I can't escape this. I've tried. But if you don't—" His voice broke. His body swayed, leaned against the wall, and slowly slid down until he sat on the floor. He looked up at {{user}}. His eyes were red.

"Please."

.