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„My Secretive Werewolf”

Chapter 1. Six Years of Texts, One Day to Meet

The rain tapped against my window in that familiar Pacific Northwest rhythm—persistent, melancholy, almost sentient in its determination. I folded another sweater and placed it carefully in my backpack, my gaze drifting for the hundredth time to the open chat window on my laptop. Darren was online, the small green dot beside his username a beacon in the gray afternoon light that filtered through my apartment. Six years of words between us, six years of knowing and not knowing, and tomorrow I would finally see his face.

My fingers hesitated over a thermal shirt—too much? Not enough? The North Grove State Park was notorious for its mercurial weather, especially in autumn when the mist clung to the towering evergreens like reluctant ghosts. I packed it anyway, just as my phone chimed with a message from Chloe.

"Don't forget extra socks. And pepper spray."

I smiled despite myself. My friends meant well with their concern, their warnings. I typed back a quick "Got it" before returning to the chat window. Darren had written something new:

"Weather report says rain. Bring layers."

Such practical words, and yet they made my heart flutter with an embarrassing intensity. Even in these mundane exchanges, there was something about the way he wrote—precise, thoughtful, with subtle currents of deeper meaning beneath the surface. I wrote back:

"Already packed three sweaters. What about you? Nervous?"

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. This hesitation was unusual for him. After six years, I could read his patterns like constellations.

"Yes." A pause, then: "But not for the reasons you might think."

I sat on the edge of my bed, the half-packed bag forgotten. This was so quintessentially Darren—honest but opaque, revealing and concealing in the same breath. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I considered how to respond. The weight of tomorrow pressed against my chest, a curious mix of exhilaration and dread.

We had met when I was sixteen, both of us frequenting an obscure online forum dedicated to Pacific Northwest folklore. I had posted about local legends involving the North Grove forests—stories of strange wolves and lost hikers that had fascinated me since childhood. His response had been erudite, challenging, filled with historical references and questions that made me think deeper. From there, our conversations had spiraled outward, from mythology to literature to philosophy, then inward to more personal territories—my suburban upbringing, my academic ambitions, the hollow space left by my father's death.

"I'm excited to finally see you," I typed, deciding on honesty. "But also terrified."

"Terrified? Of me?"

I stared at those words, the cursor blinking like a patient heartbeat. Was I afraid of him? No—not of the Darren I knew, the man who had sent me poems when I couldn't sleep, who had listened through text as I processed my grief, who knew my thoughts better than anyone in my physical life. But there was still that nagging voice, the one that sounded suspiciously like Bart: "People online can be anyone, Paula. Anyone."

"Not of you," I replied. "Of the space between who I think you are and who you might actually be. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense," he wrote back immediately. "I have the same fear."

I smiled, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could hold this moment—this last moment of possibility, before reality either shattered or solidified our connection. There was something almost magical about our relationship existing purely in words, in this liminal space where we could be completely honest without the distractions of physical presence.

A memory surfaced: three months after my father's unexpected heart attack, I had messaged Darren at 3 AM, unable to sleep, drowning in grief. I had confessed how hollow the platitudes felt, how I couldn't bear another person telling me "he's in a better place." Darren's response had arrived almost instantly:

"I won't tell you that. Grief isn't something to solve or escape. It's the price we pay for loving someone irreplaceable."

Those words had given me permission to feel the full depth of my loss, to stop apologizing for it. No one in my real life had given me that gift.

My phone buzzed again—Bart this time.

"Did you Google Map the ranger station? Remember, we tell them we're going to Site 7 before we head in. Safety first."

I texted back a thumbs up. Bart and Chloe had insisted on accompanying me for this meeting, protective as always. Their skepticism about Darren was a constant undercurrent in our friendship.

"What if he's fifty?" Chloe had asked last week over coffee. "Or what if he's using someone else's photos? You don't even know what he looks like."

"I know what matters," I had insisted, though my stomach had clenched with doubt.

Back in the chat window, Darren had written more:

"Paula, before tomorrow... I need you to know that there are things about me, about where I live and what I do, that I've kept private. Not because I wanted to deceive you, but because some truths are difficult to explain in words. And some secrets aren't only mine to tell."

My heart quickened. This was new territory, this acknowledgment of his mystery.

"Are you married?" I asked, the most obvious fear surfacing first.

"No," he replied instantly. "Nothing like that. I've never lied about who I am with you. Just... omitted certain complications."

"Complications," I repeated, testing the word. "That's vague enough to be either completely innocent or serial killer territory."

"I'm not a killer," he wrote, and I could almost hear the solemnity in his voice—the voice I had imagined for years, deep and quiet. "But my life is not... conventional. You'll see tomorrow. And if you want to leave, I'll understand."

The rain intensified outside, drumming against the roof now. The sound created a cocoon around my small apartment, around this moment of strange intimacy. I should have been alarmed by his cryptic warnings, but instead I felt a thrill of vindication. I had always sensed something different about Darren, something wild and profound beneath his measured words.