Chapter 1: The Number in the Dream

Ever wake up with a random number stuck in your head? Trust me—don’t add it on Instagram. You never know who—or what—is waiting on the other side.

My roommate Natalie Cooper sat up cross-legged on her bed, hair a tangled halo, and waved her phone like she’d just won a prize. "You guys, I dreamed a phone number last night. I still remember it—like, every single digit. Isn’t that wild?"

The way she said it, voice bubbling with a weird excitement, made it feel like she’d stumbled onto a secret code. The numbers rolled off her tongue as if she’d rehearsed them in her sleep. Sunlight sliced through our blinds, lighting up the faded movie poster taped above my desk. For a second, it felt like something big was about to happen—though none of us had a clue just how weird things would get.

Natalie grinned, phone poised over the Instagram search bar. "What do you guys think—should I DM this number on Insta myself?"

Aubrey looked up from her phone, half-laughing, half-daring: "You have to DM him. Seriously, this is like fate or something. What’s the worst that could happen?"

She giggled, tucking her legs under her, TikTok videos forgotten. Aubrey was always hungry for drama and chaos; she’d probably send a message to a Ouija board if you let her.

"Yeah, go for it. Maybe it’s fate or something," I said, half-joking, half-curious, sipping my stale gas station coffee. But Natalie’s face lit up like she’d just scratched off a winning lottery ticket. We were all bored out of our minds with college routine—so a little mystery sounded perfect.

Our kitchen table was still cluttered with empty ramen cups and Red Bull cans from last night’s study session. The air was thick with the smell of instant noodles and anticipation.

Suddenly, Tanya Evans’s voice cut through the room. "It’s best not to message a random number," she said, her tone even colder than usual. She didn’t even look at us, just stared at her chipped nail polish. "You never really know what’s on the other end."

Tanya stood in the doorway, hoodie drawn tight around her face, dark hair casting shadows. She kept her distance—never joined our movie marathons or late-night selfies. If popularity was measured in group selfies, Tanya was always the one cut out of the frame.

The second she spoke, the whole vibe in the room went ice cold. Nobody answered her.

The silence was thick and awkward. Natalie rolled her eyes and, in classic Natalie fashion, immediately sent a friend request to the strange number on Instagram.

I caught the glint of mischief in her eyes as she hit send. If you dared her not to do something, that was all the encouragement she needed. She grinned at us, like she’d just pulled off a dare at a high school party.

That afternoon, we had no classes, and Tanya was nowhere to be seen.

The apartment felt lighter without her. The windows were cracked, letting in the fresh cut grass smell from the quad outside. Aubrey and I lounged in our sweats, half-watching reality TV reruns, when—

Natalie suddenly bolted upright, nearly tripping over her comforter. "He accepted my request!"

She sat up, face flushed with excitement, waving her phone like she’d just scored front-row tickets. The energy snapped us out of our Netflix daze.

"Let me see! Let me see!" Aubrey squealed, running over. "First, check if he’s posted any photos!"

Natalie scrolled, then gasped, "Guys, he’s, like, model-level hot. This can’t be real."

"Whoa, even his driver’s license photo looks this good—imagine him in person!" Aubrey crowed.

"Natalie, you totally scored!" she shrieked, flapping her hands like a game show winner. Natalie blushed, grinning so wide her cheeks looked ready to burst. This was the college moment I’d always imagined—gossip, crushes, a dash of mystery.

As soon as I heard he was cute, I perked up too, leaning over the bed. "How cute? Hurry, send it to me!"

Natalie sent the photo to our four-person group chat.

The guy in the photo really was stunning—sharp jawline, piercing eyes, strong brows. Even in a boring license photo, he looked magnetic. His hair was perfectly mussed in that way that probably took effort to look effortless. I caught myself staring, wondering how anyone could look that good on a DMV ID. Aubrey zoomed in, making dramatic gasps, while Natalie giggled and hid her face.

Just as I was admiring the picture—

A group message popped up: Tanya. "Why’d you send a pic that looks like it belongs in an obituary?"

Her message made us freeze.

Obituary? What was she talking about?

The words hung there, cold and out of place. For a second, I wondered if Tanya was making some weird joke, but she never joked. Silence pressed in, heavy and strange.

Natalie was the first to react, furious, her fingers flying over the keyboard: "Tanya, what do you mean? What obituary? Why do you always have to say such messed up stuff?"

Tanya: "Just stating the facts."

"It really is an obituary photo. Look at the guy’s face—his eyes are shadowed, his skin’s greenish and dull, all his energy is gone. He looks just like someone in a funeral home."

Tanya’s messages dropped one after another, colder than the last. I shivered, even though the sun was still shining. Aubrey sucked in a breath, shaking her head. Natalie’s knuckles went white around her phone.

"She’s nuts!" Natalie yelled, throwing her phone onto the bed, cursing under her breath.

Aubrey quickly comforted her, tapping her own temple and mouthing, "Forget it, don’t mind her, she’s just weird."

I agreed—Tanya had gone too far. How could she say something like that about such a cute guy?

But deep down, I couldn’t shake the image—greenish skin, empty eyes. Tanya’s words left a smudge in my mind, like a fingerprint on glass.

Natalie didn’t want to keep arguing in the group. She deleted the photo and sent it to our three-person group chat (without Tanya), angrily typing: "It’s so unlucky sharing an apartment with Tanya."

Aubrey replied: "Just ignore her. She’s barely here anyway—out of sight, out of mind."

Natalie: "So over it.gif" [meme: sulking cartoon]

Natalie: "Crying puppy.gif" [meme: sad dog]

Our phones buzzed with gifs and stickers, a digital hug against Tanya’s weird vibes. Aubrey sent a sticker of a cat flipping the bird, and I tossed in a Michael Scott eye roll gif. Our private group chat was our safe place, Tanya-free, where we could vent without worrying about her next icy remark.