I tuck my face into the worn fabric of my scarf, shuddering at the blistering mid winter air of Brooklyn, New York.

The sky is dabbed with heavy clouds that litter snow onto the concrete jungle of the city. Skyscrapers are capped with piling snow, and lamplights pepper the bustling streets with their amber-like glow.

To every bystander, I’m Artemis Brasov, Russian-American senior high schooler.

But I am, without a doubt, the wielder of an ability so terribly unthinkable. I can’t seem to understand how I acquired it or why, but I find it an extremely unnecessary thing to be ‘gifted’ with.

The thoughts of pedestrians echo through my mind, voices interlacing.

Why didn’t you call me?

Did you just spill coffee—?

You look beautiful today.

Why do you keep lying to me?

I’m so sorry for what I . . .

I’d give anything to blockade the sounds from reaching me. But as always, they are relentless storms painting my mind in the heaviest hues, like the harsh strokes of a roughened paintbrush.

My phone buzzes with an igniting life from my parka jacket’s pocket, doing little to tame the snowballing voices from stopping short.

A text from Lujain. She urges me to go to Rebecca Ronald’s house party tonight, supplying the message with dozens of emojis. Lujain is what you can assume to be someone who’s nearly my friend. Though I think her acts of sympathy are branched from guilt over the fact that I’ve been bullied numerous times by my classmates. Hardly anyone befriends me for any reason other than pity.

I take a short detour at Zimmer Cafe for a coaxing cup of coffee before resuming my journey to the library.

My phone is assaulted with yet another text. Lujain will stop at nothing until I agree to attend the party.

And all I can do is agree.