Chapter 1: The Origin of "Daze" I have always been a beat behind the rest of the world. My name is Daisy, but no one calls me that. To the kids at Blackwood Elementary, to the teachers who sighed when I stared blankly at the chalkboard, and eventually, to him, I was simply "Daze." It wasn't a compliment. It was a label. It meant I was slow. It meant that when a joke was told, I was the one blinking in confusion while the laughter washed over me like a tide I couldn't swim in. It meant that in the grand, chaotic symphony of life, I was the pause. The rest note. I remember the exact moment the name stuck. It was a humid July afternoon in the suburbs of Connecticut. The air smelled of cut grass and asphalt melting in the heat. We were playing "Duck, Duck, Goose" in the cul-de-sac. I was "It." I was always "It." I wasn't fast enough to catch anyone. I would tap a head, scream "Goose!", and scramble around the circle, my Keds slipping on the grass, only to find the spot already taken. I would stand there, panting, my chest burning, while the other kids giggled behind their hands. "Daisy's in a daze again!" someone shouted. "Look at her, she's buffering!" I didn't cry. Crying required a quick emotional reaction, and I was still processing the shame. I just stood there, a small, knobby-kneed girl in a stained t-shirt, waiting for the earth to swallow me whole. That was when Carter stood up. Carter Brooks. The boy next door. He was three years older, already tall, with hair the color of wheat and eyes that could cut glass. He was the king of the cul-de-sac. He didn't run. He walked into the center of the circle, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me down to sit beside him. "She's not 'It' anymore," Carter announced, his voice carrying the natural authority of a future CEO. "I'm 'It'." The laughter stopped. If Carter said the game changed, the game changed. He looked at me. He didn't smile. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slightly melted Jolly Rancher, and pressed it into my hand. "Stop running, Daze," he said. "You're never going to catch them. Just stay here. I've got you." I've got you. Three words. They became the foundation of my entire existence. They were the walls, the roof, and the floor of the cage I would live in for the next fifteen years. I thought he was my savior. I didn't realize then that a savior needs a victim to save. By accepting his protection, I had unknowingly signed a contract: I would be the helpless one, and he would be the hero. And heroes don't fall in love with the damsel. They just rescue her on their way to the princess. Chapter 2: The Shadow and the Sun High school was a hierarchy, and Carter sat at the apex. He was the quarterback, the student body president, the guy every girl wrote about in her diary. And I was his shadow. We were "Carter and Daze." Not a couple. Never a couple. But a unit. I carried his extra textbooks. He drove me to school in his Jeep Wrangler. We did homework together at his kitchen table—or rather, he did his calculus while I struggled through basic algebra, and he would eventually sigh, take my pencil, and do it for me. "You're hopeless," he’d say, tapping the eraser against my forehead. But his tone was affectionate. Possessive. "What would you do without me, Daze?" "Die, probably," I’d answer, eating his fries. He loved that answer. He fed on my incompetence. It made him feel big. But there was a third person in our orbit. Chloe. Chloe was my cousin. She lived two streets over. If I was the rough draft, Chloe was the final, glossy print. She was sharp, witty, and beautiful in a way that made people nervous. Carter hated her. Or so he said. "She's too loud," he’d complain to me as we watched Chloe hold court in the cafeteria. "She's arrogant. She thinks she's smarter than everyone." "She is smarter than everyone," I pointed out. "She's annoying," Carter grumbled, tearing into his sandwich. "Not like you. You're... quiet. Easy." Easy. He meant uncomplicated. He meant I didn't challenge him. But I saw the way he looked at Chloe when they argued in AP History. I saw the sparks that flew when she made fun of his football stats. It wasn't hatred. It was friction. And friction creates heat. One rainy Tuesday in November of our senior year, everything changed. Carter picked me up for school. His eyes were red-rimmed. He smelled of stale tobacco, which was weird because Carter didn't smoke. "What's wrong?" I asked, buckling my seatbelt. "Nothing," he snapped. Then, softer: "Just... family stuff." He didn't talk the whole ride. When we got to school, he didn't walk me to my locker. He disappeared. I found out later, through the grapevine (I was always the last to know), that Chloe had gotten into Yale. Early admission. She was leaving. And Carter? Carter had been rejected by his dream school, Stanford. That afternoon, I found him in the bleachers, sitting alone in the rain. I sat down next to him. I didn't say anything. I just opened my umbrella and held it over him. He looked at me. He looked broken. "She's leaving," he whispered. "Who?" I asked, though I knew. "Chloe," he choked out. "She's going to Yale. She told me... she told me I was 'small town.' She said she's going to eat the world, and I'm just going to stay here and peak in high school." He put his head on my shoulder. He cried. "She's a bitch," he sobbed. "I hate her." "I know," I smoothed his wet hair. "I know." He turned his face into my neck. "You won't leave, right, Daze? You're not going anywhere." "I'm going to community college," I said. "I'm staying right here." "Good," he gripped my hand. "Good. Stay with me. Be my... be my anchor." He kissed me then. It wasn't a kiss of passion. It wasn't the kiss you see in movies where the music swells. It was a kiss of desperation. He was drowning, and I was the nearest piece of driftwood. I kissed him back. I poured fifteen years of silent adoration into that kiss. I thought, Finally. He sees me. I was wrong. He didn't see me. He just saw that I was there. Chapter 3: The Comfortable Cage We dated for four years. Or, to be more accurate, we "existed" together. Carter stayed in town. He went to the state university, got a business degree, and started working at his father’s real estate firm. I finished my associate's degree and got a job at the local library. We were the "It Couple" of our small town. Everyone expected us to get married. "Carter and Daze," his mother would beam at Thanksgiving dinners. "Like salt and pepper. You just can't have one without the other." But salt doesn't love pepper. They just sit on the same table. Our relationship was... comfortable. He picked me up for dinner on Fridays. We watched movies on Saturdays. On Sundays, he watched football with his friends, and I made nachos. He never asked me what I wanted to watch. He never asked me about the books I read. "You're so low-maintenance," he’d tell his friends, squeezing my knee. "Daze is great. No drama. No fights." Why would we fight? I never disagreed with him. I was playing a role. I was the perfect, supportive girlfriend who was just grateful to be allowed in the room. But there were cracks. Like the time I cut my hair short—a pixie cut I had wanted for years. Carter stared at me when I walked in. He frowned. "Why did you do that?" "I thought it looked... chic," I said, touching the ends nervously. "It looks... severe," he said. "Long hair suits you better. It makes you look softer. Grow it back." I grew it back. Or the time I mentioned I wanted to take a solo trip to Italy. "Italy?" he laughed. "Daze, you get lost in the mall. How are you going to survive Rome? You'll get pickpocketed in five minutes. Let's just go to the Cape again this summer. It's safe." We went to the Cape. I was safe. I was loved (I thought). I was Daze. And then, She came back. Chapter 4: The Return of the Queen It was a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday. I was at the library, shelving the new fiction arrivals, when my phone buzzed. A text from Carter. “Family dinner tonight. Mom wants you there. 7 PM.” Normal. Routine. I arrived at the Brooks' house at 7:00 sharp. I walked into the dining room, holding a pecan pie I had baked. And I dropped it. Sitting at the table, laughing at something Carter’s dad said, was Chloe. She looked... expensive. That was the only word for it. She was wearing a cream cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my car. Her hair was a sleek, dark curtain. She radiated success, confidence, and the kind of sharp intelligence that made the air crackle. Carter was sitting next to her. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't looking bored. He was leaning in. His face was animated. His eyes were bright—brighter than I had seen them in four years. "Daze!" Carter’s mom chirped. "Look who's back! Chloe is back from New York! She's taking over the marketing division at the firm!" Chloe turned to me. Her eyes swept over my cardigan, my sensible shoes, my messy bun. "Hi, Daisy," she smiled. It wasn't mean, but it was... pitying? "Still here, I see." "Hi, Chloe," I managed to say, bending down to clean up the pie. "Leave it," Carter said, waving a hand without looking at me. " The maid will get it. Come sit down. Chloe was just telling us about this merger she handled in Tokyo." I sat down. For the next two hours, I was invisible. Carter and Chloe spoke a language I didn't understand—business, strategy, ambition. They bickered. They challenged each other. "You're wrong about the zoning laws, Carter," Chloe said, pointing a manicured finger at him. "You're thinking too small. You're thinking like a townie." "I am not a townie," Carter shot back, grinning. "I'm the King of this town. And you're just a tourist." "Watch me take your crown," she teased. The tension between them was electric. It was the same friction from high school, but now, it was grown up. It was dangerous. I sat there, pushing peas around my plate. Suddenly, Carter turned to me. "Daze, get me a refill on the iced tea, would you?" He didn't say please. He didn't even look at me. He held out his glass while maintaining eye contact with Chloe. I looked at the glass. I looked at Chloe, who was watching me with a strange expression. I took the glass. I walked to the kitchen. I put the glass in the sink. And I walked out the back door. Chapter 5: The Breakup Text I drove home in silence. I sat on my beige sofa in my beige apartment, and I stared at the wall. I realized something terrifying. I wasn't Carter’s girlfriend. I was his placeholder. I was the soft place he landed when he fell. I was the warm body that kept his bed from being lonely while he waited for someone who challenged him. Someone like Chloe. He didn't love me. He loved that I was there. He loved that I was "Daze"—slow, safe, manageable. I picked up my phone. I didn't call. I didn't want to hear his voice. I didn't want him to talk me out of it. I typed: “We need to break up. I can't do this anymore. Don't come over.” I hit send. I expected him to be relieved. Or maybe confused. I didn't expect him to be furious. Five minutes later, my phone rang. I declined it. It rang again. And again. Then the texts started coming. “What the hell?” “Are you drunk?” “Is this about Chloe? Don't be jealous, Daze. It's pathetic.” “Pick up the phone. You don't get to dump me via text. I made you.” I made you. That was it. The truth. He thought he created me. He thought I was his invention. I turned off my phone. Half an hour later, pounding on my door. "Daisy! Open the damn door!" It was Carter. He sounded angry. Not heartbroken. Angry. Like someone had stolen his favorite hoodie. "Go away, Carter," I shouted through the door. "You're being irrational!" he yelled. "Open up. Let me explain. You're just... you're confused. You're always confused." "I'm not confused!" I screamed back. It was the first time I had raised my voice in twenty years. "I'm clear! For the first time in my life, I am crystal clear!" "About what?" "About the fact that you don't love me! You just love that I'm not her!" Silence on the other side of the door. "That's crazy," he muttered eventually. "You're my Daze. We're... we're a team." "No," I said, leaning my forehead against the wood. "You're the quarterback. I'm just the water girl. Go home, Carter. Go chase the cheerleader." I heard him kick the door. "Fine!" he shouted. "Be like that. You'll call me tomorrow. You always do. You can't function without me." I heard his footsteps recede. I slid down the door to the floor. He was right. I didn't know how to function without him. I didn't know who I was without him. But I was going to find out. Chapter 6: The Stranger in the Bookstore Two weeks later. I was still a mess. I cried in the shower. I cried in the cereal aisle. But I hadn't called him. I decided I needed to get out. I went to the one place Carter never went: the independent bookstore downtown. It smelled of old paper and coffee. I was reaching for a copy of The Bell Jar on a high shelf. I couldn't reach it. Usually, this was the part where I would look around helplessly, waiting for Carter to grab it and pat my head. But Carter wasn't there. I looked around for a step stool. None. "Allow me," a voice said. A hand reached over my shoulder. Long fingers, ink-stained. He pulled the book down. I turned around. He wasn't Carter. He wasn't golden. He was... monochromatic. Dark hair, messy. Wearing a grey sweater that had a hole in the sleeve. He wore glasses that were slightly crooked. He looked at me. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and kind. "Sylvia Plath," he said, handing me the book. "Light reading for a Tuesday?" "I'm going through a phase," I muttered, clutching the book. "Thanks." "I'm Julian," he said. "I've seen you here before. You usually come in with that loud guy who buys the business magazines." "I... yeah. That was my ex." "Ex?" Julian raised an eyebrow. "Congratulations." I blinked. "Excuse me?" "He took up a lot of space," Julian said, shrugging. "He stood in front of the shelves like he owned them. Hard to see the books when he was around. Hard to see you." My breath hitched. "You saw me?" "Hard to miss," Julian smiled. It was a crooked, hesitant smile. "You're the girl who organizes the poetry section when the staff isn't looking. You put the Neruda next to the Oliver. Chronological order by emotional impact. Very clever." I stared at him. I did do that. I did it nervously, compulsively. I didn't think anyone noticed. "You noticed," I whispered. "I notice quiet things," Julian said. "Loud things are boring. Quiet things are where the story is." He held out a hand. "I'm going to get coffee. The kind that tastes like mud, not the fancy stuff. Want to come? We can discuss why Plath is better than Hemingway." I looked at his hand. It wasn't a hand offering protection. It was a hand offering an invitation. I thought about Carter, who told me I would get pickpocketed in Rome. I thought about Chloe, who called me a placeholder. I looked at Julian. "I hate Hemingway," I said. Julian grinned. "Perfect. Let's go." As we walked out of the bookstore, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I knew who it was. Carter. Probably checking if I had "come to my senses." I didn't check it. For the first time in twenty years, I wasn't in a daze. I was wide awake.
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