Hello, Angela (Alternate Ending)

“Alright, girls. I think it’s time for me to head out — it’s getting late.”

“You sure, honey? The vibe seems just right for another drink or two.” Sophie’s tone and her expression made it sound genuine, but I knew better. I wanted out, and they were counting on it.

“No, no — trust me, I’m good.” I kept my voice light, yet deliberately brusque, hoping to avoid another round of fake concern.

“Alrighty then, text us when you get home, darling.” The whole group stood up from their dusty couch to escort me to the door. Mia, Sophie, Liz, Wendy. I avoided their eyes. If these walls could talk, they’d tell what each one was thinking: get the fuck out faster out of this apartment. So I did.

“Don’t worry, girls — I’ll be fine. My phone’s dead, but thanks for the invite. See you Wednesday!” I hoped I’d never see them again.

“Take care, deaa — “

The door slammed in front of my eyes before Wendy even finished. Not suspicious at all.

I was tired of the act — being friends with people who only talked to me because they couldn’t stand me. Those who pretended to care so I wouldn’t feel the need to betray them. Maybe it was my fault for letting them get this close. The elevator arrived quickly. I stepped into the rusty cabin, a flickering bulb hovering overhead. I recognised myself in it — colourless, exhausted, but still working. Still doing the work for everybody.

Good catch, Angela. Self-pity yourself a bit more. You don’t do it enough, do you?

I just wanted to get away from this place and get home. With each step away from that apartment, I felt closer to the comfort of home. By my estimate, I’d be home in under an hour. At least, I had this little book in my bag to kill some time whilst I was waiting for the bus.

Right. The bus.

Sophie’s house was in the middle of nowhere despite being close to the city. Wedged between three metro stations and several bus stops, yet somehow a considerable walk from all of them. What a shitty way to build infrastructure. I passed the houses where my ex used to live. That was one reason I hadn’t wanted to go to the party — not just because I hated those wretches, but to avoid running into him. Just the thought of seeing him put me in the mental shackles. His punchable face. Those crooked teeth that touched mine during every kiss. His rotten breath. All of it pressed on me tonight and made me want to gag. God, I hoped I could avoid him. God, I was glad to leave that house. God, I was glad to finally walk alone.

I reached the bus stop earlier than expected. It felt good to finally sit, drop my bag, and rest my shoulders. No need to carry that weight. No need to carry that burden of someone else’s life. Just me and the book. It felt satisfying to continue what I’d been reading all week. Sometimes when I get into a book, I can’t be stopped. I remember the night when I was glued to that Hermione and Draco fanfic I found online, the one where they finally were together. To this day, Manacled remains my favourite book. Even though some don’t consider it a ‘real’ novel, to me it was as impactful as my first kiss. As I started reading the new Maggie Nelson book, I noticed another figure approaching the opposite side of the stop. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female from the silhouette. The body looked thin, the walk slow and deliberate. A hood covered the face. A neat coat. And a fresh pair of sneakers — the most vibrant detail of the whole outfit. They grabbed my attention instantly. I’d always been a sneakerhead, but I couldn’t tell the model from this distance. Still, they looked uncannily familiar. Looking at those variegated shoes made me think of my sister, probably scouring through my closet right now. I recalled our biggest arguments — each one involved her taking my things without permission. Bringing people into my room. Taking my stuff. Downplaying me in front of her friends to make herself look better. Vlada made those issues feel more omnipresent than they actually were. More omnipresent than our paranoid, alcoholic parents. Sometimes, I couldn’t wrap my head around what that girl was thinking. Sometimes I felt like if she had the chance to erase me — as if I’d never existed — she’d be the first one cheering. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. This peaceful night didn’t belong to them. It belonged to me. I forced myself to redirect my attention to the present — the only thing that brought a smirk to my face.

As I sat and flipped through the pages of Bluets, I noticed the figure take a seat directly across from me. The silhouette seemed relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, foot hanging loose. The toes lifted slightly every four seconds. I sat the same way. In what seemed like coincidence, the person pulled a book from their bag, fully covering their face. I felt an enormous curiosity about the book’s title, but the dim streetlight lit everything except the inside of the bus stop, shadowed by an overhang. A fellow reader. Nothing to fear.

I’d been waiting fifteen minutes. The bus still hadn’t shown. By that time usually I would be already halfway home by walking. Honestly, normally I’d be annoyed at the world, but not tonight. I’d give it ten more minutes before I stood up and walked home through the night. A night walk in silence wasn’t a burden or torture. Just a good, even a bit romantic way to spend time alone. I didn’t want to imagine tomorrow. Rushing to a 9 AM class where I’d see them all again — Mia, Sophie, Liz, Wendy. Exhausting even to think about.

Did I want to cut things off with them? Yes. But they wouldn’t just let me walk away. I knew too much. They knew too much about me. I knew things they didn’t even know about each other. I knew Mia was sleeping with our Econ teacher, who was still married to his wife in Canada. I knew that Mia had threatened him — divorce your wife or risk losing your job, loser. I knew Sophie and Liz were looking for a new roommate to replace Mia. Living with her was ‘unbearable,’ according to them. And I knew ‘unbearable’ meant far more than dishes in the sink. I knew that Wendy was secretly texting Liz's boyfriend, disguising it as ‘checking in’ on Liz. Those check-ins usually involved more than just visits to Ryan’s place. I knew things they wanted me to forget. That’s why I wanted out. And that’s why I knew I couldn’t leave, even if I tried. Maybe my sister’s fantasy wasn’t that bad after all. Me never existing — was convenient for everyone. My face twisted, as my eyes started watering, and a tear fell onto the page. Was I crying because I hadn’t blinked? Or was this my body finally speaking? I shifted my attention back to the figure. Static. The silhouette hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes. Shadows consumed the person, crafting a dark void in the bus stop. I wanted to start a conversation. I called out to a stranger, half-joking:

“I don’t think any more buses are coming tonight.”

Silence.

I understood. The figure in the coat probably had a rough night, too. No room for small talk. Fair enough, couldn’t blame him. I gave up on waiting. I slipped the book into my coat pocket — the whole reason I bought this coat in the first place. It was five years ago, at a shopping mall. They only had one left. My sister and I begged our parents to buy it so we’d share it. I promised Vlada that I’ll keep my word.

But I never did.

I stood up. For a moment, I visualised the map of the district, plotting the fastest route home. Took me a bit less than a minute to get the whole schema in my head. It was decided, I’d walk. Clear my head of all this shit. As a kid, I used to spend a lot of time in this area. Evenings on the roof of the tall red brick building with narrow windows everywhere. It was just me and my friends. Many called it an architectural pinnacle of the area — at least back then. My parents even considered buying an apartment there. Thank god they didn’t. Now the place was filled with drunks, addicts, and unpaid hookers. Just a week ago, a body was found at the front door. Overdose or murder? Reports never said, but everyone assumed the former. Funny how before they used to complain about teens smoking on the roof. What seemed worse now? I took my first step towards home, still looking at the red brick building where I’d tried my first cigarette. I didn’t cough or gag like most first-timers. It felt easy. It felt good. I inhaled deep and exhaled a huge cloud like I’d been smoking for years.

I tried to scour my pockets. My jeans. My coat. Finally, in the inside pocket of my coat, I found a lighter and a cigarette. I tried lighting it while walking, cupping my hands against the wind. Failed. Again. Again. I stopped. I’m not an amateur; I can light a fucking cigarette. I stood still, cupped the cigarette gently in my palms. I had this old lighter - six years and its wild spark still left marks on my index finger, little burns that swelled like something trying to break through skin. Finally, I caught the spark. The flame captured the cigarette’s tip. Crisping paper. A glowing orange that lit up everything around me.

The first puff always beats the last.

As I inhaled the first smoke, it didn’t feel like smoke at all; it was dry heat — warmth flooding into my mouth. A bit later, it started burning my throat, softening every muscle in my body bit by bit. That was the real inhale. The cough started to claw at my chest. Fire hooked into my lungs, I held it in — like always. I exhaled. The tight grip of anxiety loosened. Released with my natural breath. Now I felt calm. Calm enough to keep walking. Then I heard footsteps behind me.

Was it the figure from the bus stop? Had they given up waiting too?

I hoped I was hallucinating. Each step felt synchronised, the sounds blended together — we were marching. The crisp crunch of snow continued to remind me: someone was behind me. I wasn’t intimidated. Just this constant tickling in my stomach that made me feel sick. At least I still had some cigarette left. I took another drag. My pace slowed, body relaxed. Each step felt more and more deliberate. More comfortable. Maybe they’d pass me now? In that case, I’d be the one following them. I started to count in my head. How many steps before they overtook me?

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

Four steps.

Five steps.

The sound of footsteps didn’t get louder, nor did it fade either. By now the figure should’ve been ahead of me. Or at least walking right beside me.

Six steps.

Seven steps.

My chest tightened.

My head felt dizzy, as I still held the cigarette stub. I couldn’t look at it. The smoke still sat inside me, dissecting me, cutting through the shame of being a smoker from the inside out. I threw it into the snow. I was carefully watching the glowing orange die, consumed by the cold, harsh night. The thought of someone walking behind me and adjusting their pace started to press down on me. Usually, after the smoke, I always had shortness of breath, yet now it felt different. I couldn’t draw a satisfying breath at all. My lungs were giving up on me. The inexplicable feeling that something was wrong kept building. And building. I tried to replace the abrupt, quick breath-ins with controlled breathing.

Inhale. Exhale.

Slow inhales to fight the dizziness. To stay conscious. I wanted to believe the sounds were in my head. An illusion. But the pressure had been sitting dormant too long. That figure woke it up. My hand rushed through my coat pocket. My jeans. My bag. I needed another cigarette. Needed it. Now.

It helped me ignore everything. The fatigue. The anxiety. The fear. Then I remembered Aunt Lilia’s store — 24/7, one turn away.

But going inside felt wrong. If the figure followed me in, I’d be cornered.

No. No.

Keep moving. Keep walking.

The distance to the home wasn’t short. Twenty minutes on foot. The thought of running to my house did cross my mind. What if I could make it?

But what if my legs gave out? What if I collapsed in the snow? What if I got stabbed with nobody hearing me scream? What if they stuffed me in a snowdrift?

Inhale. Exhale.

I just kept walking. Same pace.

With each step, snow filled my shoes. I was certain that I wasn’t walking straight anymore — I was going down. Sliding down a slope. Step by step, filling my shoes with more snow, leading me down. Down to hell.

I couldn’t maintain such a pace. I had to stop and throw the snow out of my boots, as the cold pressed against my nearly bare feet. I crossed the road and ended up standing right next to the orange building I saw from afar. I saw an entrance. A panel covered with buttons and apartment numbers. My body was trembling.

Inhale. Exhale.

Should I call for help? Go inside?

Angela, you should go and buzz every door — find a shelter. Please.

But what if no one answered? What if I just cornered myself?

What if IT answered?

I bent down, quickly took off my boot and let all the snow drop onto the ground, as I balanced on one foot, trying to look behind. The presence of the orange building was palpable. The building I used to romanticise, avoid, now again felt like the only safe space. At least it was well-lit. No junkies or addicts around. For the love of god, I wished I could see one now. I tried peeking behind me. I wanted to see what the figure looked like. What it wore. Who it was.

Was it the same figure from the bus stop?

I couldn’t see much except for the shadows and a vibrant spot hidden in the darkness.

I knew that it was just standing there. Staring at me. Waiting for me to continue walking to let me hope I’d make it home safe, extending the pleasure. I wanted to scream fuck you as loud as I could, but that would be one of the trembling shrieks.

Inhale. Exhale.

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Fifteen minutes left. None of this would’ve happened if the fucking bus had just shown up. Or if I’d stayed in that apartment with those treacherous snakes.

No way to win, huh?

Maybe at least a way to stay alive.

I looked ahead. I knew how many steps it would take for me to get home, but I couldn’t take one. Instead, I just stood there, trying to catch my breath like I was running out of it. Shallow. Tiny bursts. Frantic sips of air. But all I had to do was take another step. Just keep walking, Angela.

Fifteen minutes. A thousand meters.

You got this, girl.

You got this.

I felt proud. I kept walking. Even though I was shivering.

It wasn’t just the cold. I was sweating. A cold moisture beaded on my forehead, with the drops of sweat sliding down my back and goosebumps rushing across my arms. I wrapped my arms around myself. But I knew the cold wasn’t coming from outside. With every visible breath in the cold air, I knew pain was coming. A dull ache bloomed inside me. A deep bruise no one could see. I kept shifting my posture. Stretching. Trying to find a position where I could tolerate the last 800 meters.

Come on, Angela. Come on.

Before, I could hear my breath. Now I could only see it. Sounds distorted. The crispy sound of snow became a rasp. The scream a whiteboard makes when you drag a crayon across it. Scrapping. Scrapping. Scrapping until your ears bleed. Its breath synchronised with mine. I felt it.

Warmth on my neck.

The figure’s breath.

It was right behind me.

Then I smelled it. My sister’s perfume.

Run. Run.

I started to catch up on the notes of it. Lavender. Hazelnut. Caramel. My sister’s perfume. The one she’d worn for years. I knew that smell. I knew that smell too well. I used to wear it first.

It broke through my nostrils, squeezing all that deep pain into one spot inside me.

Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe if I got home, it would pass.

Maybe I was going insane.

How could it walk in the same direction?

Walk exactly like me?

Breathe like me?

The figure pressed closer. Right behind me. It could have easily wrap its arms around me. Pull me under.

I wouldn’t fight.

I couldn’t.

My arm pressed against my chest; it was resting there. I stroked myself, trying to hold back the pressure building inside, but the panic was stronger. I couldn’t talk — my voice left me. If someone asked me to scream now — scream as loud as I could — I wouldn’t make a sound. Not even a squeak.

RUN. RUN. RUN.

600 metres.

I had to push myself. One last push. One last sprint home.

My breathing — I begged myself to keep walking. Stay sane for another 600 metres. I saw my apartment. I saw the light in my room.

Hope. Love.

I had to run.

I had to get home.

I didn’t care about the weight in my legs; it was right behind me. I had to run. Let my body prove itself. Ignore the pain.

One. Last. Push.

I exploded.

The world narrowed to a tunnel of white. Each gasp felt like a razor blade killing my lungs, searing through me. The snow sucked at me, heavy resistance clinging to my legs. Begging me to stop. To drop. The earth itself asking me to rest. TO DIE.

But I felt free.

Running from everything. Everything behind me. Everything inside me. Everything waiting for me.

My ribs tightened. Shallow breaths scraped my lungs. My vision blurred. My body shook. The lights flickered. But I was still running.

Pain everywhere.

It radiated down my left arm — the one clutching my keys for self-defence. Pins and needles pressing into every muscle, locking me in. Heavy. Tight.

I didn’t know if it was running.

I didn’t look back.

Not now. Not ever.

300 metres.

I was going to slam through that door. Reject my own cage, appear at the doorsteps with a rageful, erratic, terrifying grimace. My jaw locked. I was ready to fight. To stand up for myself. I pushed forward. Minutes. Seconds. Just a bit before I was there.

150 metres.

I saw the door. So close. I could already see it, I could smell mom’s cooking — it felt so near. I would enter my house, collapsing on the floor. Hugging myself. My sister would run out of the bedroom, find me and call me crazy. I was ready for it. I needed it.

One last push.

Then I fell.

My legs gave out. I fell into the snow.

The door. It was right there. I tried to crawl toward it.

My legs were numb, a crushing weight descended on my body, forcing me to stop. The cold air I gasped didn’t feel like oxygen anymore. It was thin. Useless. My body was an exhausted engine running on nothing. My legs folded. I stopped crawling.

I couldn’t make it.

I gave up.

I knew it was behind me.

I spun around. Leaned against the bench, awaiting to look straight into its eyes. I dragged myself under the streetlight.

I saw it.

Strolling toward me. Hood covering the face. It was wearing a winter coat. Similar to mine.

No — identical to mine. It stopped at the knees. The figure looked thin. Not male. But each step still terrified me.

That vibrant spot in the shadows.

The shoes.

Now, I knew why they looked familiar.

They were the same ones I was wearing.

Dread. Terror.

This isn’t real. I blacked out somewhere. The girls are helping me home right now. This isn’t happening.

It kept coming.

I couldn’t accept death. I hated myself for leaving that party. Maybe I actually liked those girls. They’d done good things for me, right? I begged internally with no words coming out. I begged the figure in silence. The tears streamed down my face.

The figure finally stepped into the light.

I saw its face. Not a man.

Not a stalker.

Me.

I was staring at myself.

I choked on my tears — just the pathetic gasps for air. The figure’s face…my face…had no expression.

Dead eyes.

I..didn’t understand.

How —

My chest made it finally squeeze.

I couldn’t catch my breath.

This was it.

Sophie’s room was quiet until Wendy turned on the TV.

“BREAKING NEWS: A body was found this morning near Academic Ministry Street. The victim has been identified as Angela White, 23. Police are reporting the cause of death as natural — a heart attack. The body was discovered at approximately 6AM by a resident of a nearby building. Here’s what he had to say: ‘I knew this girl — ’”

The TV droned on.

The girls looked at each other.

Then Sophie smiled.

Mia giggled.

Liz snorted.

Then they were all screaming with laughter.

Mia and Liz jumped up, grabbing each other, spinning in circles. “DOWN WITH THE BITCH! DOWN WITH THE BITCH! DOWN WITH THE FUCKING BITCH!”

Wendy threw the window open. Cold wind rushed in. She leaned out, shrieking into the street: “BYE BYE BYEEE, ANGELLAAAA!!”

They collapsed on the floor, rolling, kicking their legs in the air like children. Tears streamed down their faces. Liz was gasping for air between fits of laughter with Mia pounding the floor with her fists.

“She’s DEAD!” Wendy shrieked. “She’s actually fucking DEAD!”

Sophie stood apart, phone in hand. She was smiling now too — wide, manic. She dialed.

Someone answered immediately.

“Yeah?”

“Did you see the news?” Sophie’s voice cracked with suppressed laughter.

“She’s gone.” A pause.

Then, louder: “I’m so fucking happy. We can finally be official. I know she was your ex, but — ”

“NO. FUCK HER. DOWN WITH THE BITCH.”

Sophie laughed — wild, uncontrollable. She held the phone out toward the chaos.

“DOWN WITH THE BITCH! DOWN WITH THE BITCH! DOWN WITH THE BITCH!”

The chant filled the room. The girls were screaming, jumping on furniture, throwing pillows in the air like confetti. Mia grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, popped it open, and sprayed it everywhere.

“TO ANGELA!” she screamed.

“TO HER DEATH!” Liz howled back.

They clinked the bottle in the air and drank straight from it, wine spilling down their chins. On the TV, the news continued. Angela’s photo filled the screen. A school picture — her awkward smile, her eyes tired even then. More laughter. More screaming.

The celebration had begun.

Angela’s parents spent the morning answering police questions. Detectives filled the apartment. One finally entered Angela’s room. He stopped in the doorway.

Vlada was there. On the floor. Surrounded by Angela’s things.

No — she was buried in them.

The closet had been torn open. Every drawer emptied. Clothes scattered everywhere like a storm had hit. She’d pulled everything out, everything Angela owned, and made a nest of it. The family photo lay shattered near the closet, its glass webbing the faces of the Stepanovs and Angela’s sister. And between them, a cruel, ragged tear where Angela had been torn from the picture.

Back and forth, Vlada continued to roll into the clothing. Pressing the fabric to her face. Inhaling. Her face was wet — tears and sweat and something else.

She was drooling. It hung from her bottom lip as she clutched a sweater to her chest, whispering to herself.

“Mine.”

“Mine now. All mine.”

She grabbed the vibrant shoes — the ones Angela had worn that night — and brought them to her face. They still had plenty of filthy leftovers of the snow in it, as she pressed them against her cheek. Kissing them.

“No one can take this from me.” Her voice was hoarse, cracked.

“She’s gone. She’s gone and it’s all mine.”

The detective took a step back.

Vlada’s head snapped toward him. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown. Feral.

“MINE.” She bared her teeth. Saliva glistened on her chin. Her crooked finger was pointing at the fractured family portrait.

“IT’S MINE. SHE LEFT THEM. SHE LEFT THEM.”

She grabbed handfuls of clothes, pressing them to her face, her mouth. Like she was trying to consume them. To absorb her sister through the fabric.

“I’m her now,” she whispered, giggling.

“I’m Angela now. I can be Angela.” She took a pause, inhaling the smell of fabric, “Better Angela.”

She pulled on Angela’s coat. The one Angela died in. Still dusted with snow. Vlada stood still, looking in the mirror on Angela’s dresser.

And she smiled. She liked what she saw.

“Hello, Angela,” she whispered to her reflection. Then she started laughing. Soft at first. Then louder. Louder. LOUDER.

Her screams filled the room. The detective backed out. Shut the door.

Angela was gone.