𝐈𝐍𝐊 - JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER

3

     Before you know it, you're screaming.

     "Did you just throw a pillow at me?" he asks, eyes widened as he smooths the disheveled tresses of hair back into place.

     Gapingly, you stared at the man dressed in black. The way he tucked the blond strands behind his ears hit you with a wave of nostalgia so strong it scared you. But it couldn't have been nostalgia. You did not know this person or how he'd found his way into your room. 

     His staggered mien fades into something more subtle. His eyes turn a deeper shade of blue as they search your own. There's a hesitant second before he speaks again. "I know you, don't I?"

     You're certain at least twenty seconds have passed since you last took a steady breath. The silk fabric of a pillow finds its way to your fingertips again. You hold it over your head, aiming for his face again.

     "Stop it, behave yourself!" He covers his face with his hands. "It's me!"

     But the pillow's already left your hands—"What the hell are you talking about?!"—It hits him square in the face. "How am I supposed to know who you are?!"

     You rustle through the blankets, trying desperately to find your phone. If you would have known an ax murderer was going to be visiting you tonight, you would have put it in a place more accessible. You curse under your breath. Maybe if you were lucky, Vecna would show up and snap his bones.

     "It's me, Jamie!" the blond exclaims.

     "Jamie," you scoff. Your hands find your phone in the blankets. Vecna might not be coming, but the police would be.

     "I'm telling the truth!"

     His pleading doesn't stop your fingers from tapping frantically against your home screen. You're already dialing the numbers.

     "Wait!" he blurts out. "I know you, you're Y/n...? The girl from the story, aren't you?"

     Your thumbs freeze. The numbers stared back at you against the screen. You only needed to press the call button and the cops would be on their way.

     His arms drop to his side in defeat. "Please," he begs, a woeful glint in his eyes. "Don't call the police."

     The phone in your hand lowers only slightly. This "stranger" in your room was no ordinary stranger. He knew about the story, he knew about Jamie, and somehow he knew your name.

     "If this is a prank from Tom, tell him it's not funny," you mutter.

     "I have no idea who this Tom is, but he's not behind any of this. This was all you, love." He says admiring the setup of the room. He shifts absently on his feet, turning around to get a full view of everything. From the abstract paintings on the wall to the plants against the dressers. It seems the small bookshelf in the corner catches his attention for the longest. He scans the titles in awe. "Beautiful selection," he adds.

     You blink. "Who are you?"

     "I've already told you. I'm Jamie."

     You groan and wave a hand in his direction. "You expect me to believe this? Jamie's not real."

     The blond raises an eyebrow, examining himself with caution. He tugs at the black t-shirt he wears, pokes at his stomach, adjusts the ripped jeans on his waist, before looking back up to you. A patronizing smile finds his face as he shrugs. "He's pretty real to me."

     "You've got to be kidding me," you reply, bringing your eyes back to your phone.

     "Okay, wait!" he yelps, "I'm Jamie! I'm Jamie, really! Truly! If I wasn't how would I know your name?"

     "You could be a stalker..."

     "But why would I stalk you?"

     "Seconds away from pushing this button, sir."

     He had no intentions of giving up. "Okay, wait! In your story, Jamie has a freckle beside his nose, doesn't he?"

     You furrow your eyebrows. "What does this have to do with anything?"

     "Which side?" he repeats.

     You sigh. "The right."

     "I have the same one." The man turns his head to the right just enough for you to see the freckle gleaming in the light. Your heart sinks down to your stomach. For it to be in the exact same place you'd imagined it to be was not what you had been expecting. "And the tattoos?" he scoffs, motioning to his knuckles. To your surprise, he lifts his shirt to reveal the various decorations against his abs and chest.

     A fuzzy sensation blooms under your skin, but the butterflies can only cloud your mind for so long. How were you to believe that this man was Jamie. Your imaginary boyfriend? Keyword: imaginary. But the skull on his fingers and the silver rings on his hands told you more than enough. This was your grunge aesthetic boyfriend your best friend had written up for you in the sixth grade.

     "But how?" you ask. "Why are you here?"

     "My guess is as good as yours."