Midnight Confessions

By Elstran Books

Imagine this: You're about to step into the quiet, unassuming life of Lena Harper, a high school senior who prefers the safety of routine and the solitude of her town's mysterious old library. But everything changes one fateful night when your phone buzzes at midnight—and an anonymous confession lands in your hands. Suddenly, you're thrust into a web of secrets that unravel the carefully guarded facades of everyone around you.

In Midnight Confessions, you'll walk alongside Lena as she grapples with the weight of these intimate revelations—secrets that expose struggles with mental health, family pressures, betrayal, and forbidden love. Each message forces you to confront not only the hidden truths of her classmates but also your own beliefs about trust, privacy, and vulnerability.

As tensions rise and rumors swirl through the halls of Ridgewood High, you'll feel the pull between exposing dangerous secrets for justice or protecting fragile hearts from shattering further. With every confession, you grow closer to Kai, a quietly supportive classmate whose own past is entangled in the mystery, and Maya, a bold journalism club president eager to uncover the truth. Together, you'll navigate fractured friendships, unexpected betrayals, and the electrifying tension of first love—all while piecing together clues to uncover the shocking source behind the confessions.

This isn't just a story; it's your journey through the shadows of human complexity and the light of raw honesty. Will you have the courage to embrace imperfection, both in yourself and others? Can vulnerability truly become your greatest strength?

Midnight Confessions invites you to question the stories we tell ourselves—and those we keep hidden. It's a richly textured mystery full of emotional stakes, tender romance, and unforgettable lessons about trust, identity, and the extraordinary power of being truly seen. Are you ready to face what lies beneath the surface?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elstran Books
• Release date: May 2, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231656578

Elstran Books

At Elstran Books, stories aren't just words on a page—they're the sparks that light up young hearts and minds. We're a team of indie authors who know what it's like to get lost in a book and come out a little different on the other side. That's why we write Young Adult novels that dive deep into love, identity, courage, and the tough choices that shape who we become. From messy first loves to twisty mysteries and wild adventures through new worlds, every story we create is built to leave a mark. We write for the dreamers who stay up too late turning pages, the rebels who believe in something bigger, and the quiet souls looking for a voice that gets it. We choose to stay indie because we believe stories should come from the heart, not a boardroom. Every book we write carries that love—because before we were writers, we were readers too. Come along for the ride. One story. One spark. One journey at a time.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A Quiet Town, A Quiet Life

The morning light seeped through my bedroom window, casting a warm glow over the faded yellow walls. Each lazy strip of sunlight stretched slowly across the worn wooden floorboards, gently nudging me awake in the way only a well-loved home could. This was how mornings began in Willow Creek—soft, unhurried, like an old tune played on a slightly out-of-tune piano. The light was an invitation to another predictable day in this small town, a place that wrapped around you like a familiar sweater, comfortable yet tightening if you lingered too long in one spot.

With a soft sigh, I pushed the thin quilt aside and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool beneath my feet, a tender reminder of the lingering vestiges of winter. I threw open the window, and a light breeze fluttered the lace curtains, bringing with it the fresh scent of damp earth and blooming daisies. Spring had laid her claim on Willow Creek, breathing life into every corner and filling the streets with whispers of change, even if life within them rarely did.

I stepped out onto the porch, and the creak of the old boards blended with the symphony of a slowly waking town. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from across the street where Mr. Harper leaned over his white-picket fence, a steaming mug in hand that mirrored the vapors rising from the blacktop as the sun climbed higher. A comfortable fixture in his garden, Mr. Harper was like the town crier, his nods and greetings as reliable as the post office clock.

Morning, Lena, he called out, his voice gravelly but warm, the way it always sounded on mornings when dew still clung to the grass.

Morning, Mr. Harper, I replied with a smile, pulling my sweater tighter against the morning chill. There was comfort in routine, in his predictable shuffle back to whatever small duty awaited him amongst the sprouting tulips. Yet, it was in these familiar exchanges that an odd, unsettling thought would occasionally pop into my head—how everything was in its place, safe and right, yet hanging together by invisible threads that could snarl or snap with little warning.

The neighbors’ greetings echoed down the street, a rehearsed chorus that mingled with the song of robins perched on telephone wires. Their melodies hung in the air, vibrant against the hum of morning. A small group of children passed by, their laughter bubbling over like a brook, carefree and boundless. And through it all, came the scent of daisies—a soft, persistent reminder that despite the chill returning each dusk, spring was truly here.

I went through the ritual of locking the windows and checking the door, an unshakable habit that clung to me since childhood. Even in this place of repetitiveness and reassurance, there was something about ensuring its boundaries were sealed from the unknown, a practice akin to a prayer for continued tranquility. But as I turned the key, a faint tremor ran down my spine, one unrelated to the crisp air. It was the kind of unease that thrummed beneath the surface like a heartbeat, subtle yet insistent, a quiet admonition that peace was fragile, teetering precariously on the edge of disruption.

On the porch, I took one last look at the street bathed in a honeyed glow. People here moved about with an ease that felt scripted, each day unfolding with predictable grace. Yet inside, something stirred—a worry, a memory not yet formed but rooted in the ether of dreams or premonitions. I couldn’t tell.

With a smooth, practiced motion, I shrugged off the feeling, tucked it deep where it could be managed or forgotten amidst conversation and chores. The day awaited, with its simple interludes and undemanding demands, and I stepped into it like an old role rehearsed to perfection, the scene unchanged, the whispers of the heart awaiting their cue.

––––––––

The journey to school was a ritual, a slow procession through the lazy arteries of Willow Creek. Each step was measured, deliberate, like the steady tick of a clock that sought to ground me in the present. The gravel crunched beneath my feet, a constant, calming sound that anchored me even as my mind floated forward to the uncertainties of the day.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of dew and fallen leaves. The sun, still low on the horizon, sprayed honeyed light through the gaps in the tree-lined path, casting elongated shadows that seemed to dance ahead of me, leading me on.

Arriving at school, the cacophony of student life engulfed me, as it did every day—a rushing river of voices and clanging lockers. I threaded naturally into the throng, moving with the flow like a leaf on the current, unfurling the camouflage of habitual indifference. Heads turned, faces flashed by, each one a puzzle of expressions I chose not to solve. I kept my gaze toward the hallway tiles, a mosaic of muted tones offering comfort in their steady, repetitive patterns.

It was an art, this navigation—gliding through the spaces between conversations, those snatches of gossip and laughter passing over me like a breeze. I had perfected this dance, slipping past others almost invisibly, another inconspicuous thread in the school's chaotic tapestry. My silence was my shield, polite smiles and nods my repertoire for blending into the background noise.

The buzz of my phone broke the internal beat of my heart, drawing my attention momentarily from the roar of the crowd. Mom's text blinked on the screen, a few words about a school project, brisk and utilitarian. Our exchanges were like this—brief, almost clinical, yet they contained a thread of something genuine and steady, a tether I clung to however thin it felt. It was a line back to what felt more like home than anywhere else.

I tucked my phone away and continued my path through the halls. Faces merged and split in my peripheral vision, their brief details absorbed and discarded in equal measure. Conversations ebbed around me, a sea of half-heard stories filled with betrayal and triumph, alliances formed and broken. I let it all wash over me, knowing safety lay within the boundaries of my crafted outline; a persona carved out of necessity, smoothed from years of knowing what wasn’t mine to claim.

Yet today, the air felt different, charged with something that made the skin at the nape of my neck prickle. The walls I had constructed so carefully felt thin, tenuous against the weight of my unspoken truths. Behind every glance, I sensed inquisitiveness and scrutiny, shadows of curiosity trying to sneak into the shelter I had built. Their eyes, like arrows shot my way, occasionally caught me in their sights, skimming the surface of my composure.

A detour to my locker promised a brief reprieve. I spun the combination lock with quick, practiced fingers, the metallic click and smooth unwinding soothing in their familiarity. The metal door swung open, revealing an assortment of textbooks, each one a discrete promise of distraction—a fortress when the world felt too large. I half-listened to snippets of words drifting from a nearby group of students, their monuments of conversation illuminating lives vastly different from mine.

As I gathered my books, the comforting musk of old paper reached out to me, wrapping me in its embrace. It was enough for now—this routine, this quiet. I leaned into its steady rhythm, feeling the strange absence of anticipation weave through me like a thread being pulled out of tapestry, leaving behind empty loops of fabric.

Leaving the sanctuary of my locker, I resumed my journey through the corridors. It was easier to let the routine carry me, but even then, I couldn't shake the feeling that each step made the carpet beneath my feet thin, almost translucent, as if at any moment I might step through to something unknown. Part of me bristled at the thought, stirring a familiar resistance in reemerging vulnerability, the seduction of intimacy I had long guarded against.

The world around me moved ever forward, a constant stream of moments blending into minutes, then hours, threatening to drown out the self I had carefully cultivated. In those transitions, with everything hidden waiting to be revealed, I found myself pausing, questioning the frailty of safety in routine, wondering if the whispers of the unknown might be worth more than the emptiness I knew so well.

I pressed into the day, readying myself for the next class, where I would once again become a shadow amongst shadows, an observer in a world that haunted me with the possibilities of what I might allow myself to become. And with each passing hour, I felt the heavy gaze of inevitability press upon my soul—a reminder that, despite outward appearances, the currents beneath were changing, demanding that I find the courage to either plunge deeper or pull myself to a safer shore.

The bell rang overhead, jolting me from contemplation, and I moved toward the classroom, surrounded yet distinct, like a pebble in a rushing stream.

––––––––

The library was my sanctuary, a place where the world's chaos softened to the gentle hum of turning pages, where the air was thick with the comfort of words long settled in their leather-bound homes. The sprawling labyrinth of bookshelves formed a cocoon, their spines battered but gracious, whispering secrets from times and places both near and far. I gravitated towards my usual nook, a corner carved out of time itself, where dust motes twirled in the golden sunbeam filtering through the stained-glass window like tiny, glistening ballet dancers.

I seated myself on the wide leather chair, its cracked surface hugging me like an old friend, and carefully arranged the books I’d carried with reverence. Each one was a sentinel, a protector from the unspoken turmoil that churned within. The scent of aged paper, slightly musty yet comforting, wrapped around me, soothing my senses.

As I traced my fingertips along the edge of a favorite volume, I felt Mr. Ellis approach before I saw him. His presence was as familiar as the creak of the wooden floor beneath his perennial loafers, and just as reassuring. He moved with the softness of a whisper, a man molded by the hush of this place, his footsteps falling like memories in the quietude.

Books have a way of revealing what the eye cannot see, he said. His voice was a gentle rumble, carrying a hint of amusement, as if he took secret pleasure in the truths tucked within his words. His gaze met mine, and I saw the flicker of understanding there, a hint of kinship in our shared reverence for the unsung symphony of silence.

I nodded, the gesture more of a reflex than a conscious decision. His words resonated, nudging the parts of me I kept carefully concealed. There was a yearning in me, a desire as deep-rooted as the old oak outside the window, to connect the stories that surrounded me with the invisible threads of my own narrative. Yet, I clung to my preferred invisibility, as one might cling to a cherished secret—self-preserving and solitary.

Mr. Ellis lingered, allowing the silence to stretch between us like a bridge. I sensed he understood the precarious tightrope I walked, between the need for solitude and the longing for belonging. His presence, steady as the old grandfather clock ticking gently in the alcove, was a balm, a reminder that in this world of ink and shadow, not all truths demanded voicing.

He began to move away, a ghosting presence among the echoes and the dust. If you ever find a truth here that needs sharing, you know where to find me, he offered, a final parting gift wrapped in the nuance of companionship.

I watched him retreat into the maze of shelves, until his figure dissolved into a silhouette, merging with the muted hues of the library’s timeless palette. Alone once more, I turned my attentiveness back to the book in hand. The pages welcomed me as the comforting lull of the old clock slipped into the periphery, its rhythm a backdrop to my inner musings.

The words on the page blurred momentarily, eclipsed by my internal wrestling. Each sentence, each carefully constructed line, was a journey; every paragraph, a tale that tugged at the fibers of my own untold chapters. It was a strange comfort to be a vessel through which other lives traveled while I anchored myself firmly in a reality as fragile as the whisper of paper against the turning page.

With a deep breath, I sank into the embrace of the story, surrendering to the hand-crafted world within it. Here, the dilemmas were familiar yet foreign enough to provide refuge, their resolutions simmering with the promise of clarity my own life often lacked. In the corner beneath the dusty halo of light, I found the anchor I sought—a mooring to the present in the flowing river of time.

Outside, the shadows crept silently, lengthening as the afternoon matured, hinting at hidden truths with each shifting pattern. Even within this safe harbor, the whisper of the unknown wove itself into the fabric of my being, a constant reminder that the stories surrounding me held secrets that echoed my own silent revelations.

For now, though, I cherished the solitude, the pretend invisibility, for within the library’s gentle embrace, I was part of something grander, even if my own passage remained a quiet footnote in the eternal march of unwritten stories.

––––––––

The hallway was a blur of chatter and motion, a symphony of chaos punctuated by the discordant clatter of lockers closing and sneakers squeaking across the linoleum floor. My senses were a taut wire, picking up the fragments of conversations, the thrill and drama of unremarkable teenage life. Each footfall was a practiced dance, weaving through clusters of laughter and the occasional stumbling falls of newcomers finding their footing.

Then, like an oasis amid the pandemonium, there was Kai. He stood against the wall, all languid elegance, his back slightly hunched as if he were perpetually relaxed. His presence was a beacon of calm, a fixed point in the ever-shifting tide of students. His eyes met mine, warm and deep—an unspoken language only a few could interpret.

Hey, Lena, came his greeting, his voice low and crackling with an energy that was as familiar as it was comforting. That voice threaded through the noise, wrapping around me in a quiet promise of understanding.

Hey, Kai, I responded, my voice automatically matching his low pitch, as if anything louder would break the fragile magic around us. It was remarkable, the simplicity of it—a moment suspended free of the undercurrents that usually tugged at my mind. In that brief exchange, worry and unrest receded, making space for something gentler.

For a heartbeat, the corridor shrank to encompass only us, and the chaos faded to a distant hum. It was almost enough to forget that, in the real world, every shared glance bore weight, every interaction was a calculated risk in the social web we navigated. Almost.

Out of instinct, I glanced to the side, and that’s when I saw Jordan. His eyes were sharp as ever, slicing through the crowd with a precision that unnerved. His gaze rested on me, stopping for a fraction too long—not out of curiosity, but scrutiny. A reminder, stark and unyielding, that vulnerability here was as perilous as navigating a minefield. His presence was cold steel slicing through the warm tendrils spiraling from my brief conversation with Kai.

With a jolt, the hallway resumed its overwhelming dimensions, pushing me forward with the relentless tide of bodies. Still, even as I was swept along, there lingered a vestige of that moment beside Kai—a sensation I clung to as fingers of doubt and fear tried curling around my resolve. In the narrows between the lockers and backpacks, with the distant clanging of the next bell edging closer, I couldn't help but think that with Kai, perhaps the seams of my armor could soften and borders fade, if only for these passing moments.

––––––––

The dusk gathered around me like a soft cloak as I made my way home, my heart keeping time with the rhythmic cadence of my footsteps on the cobblestones. The sky, a canvas for the waning light, brushed against the horizon, each stroke a promise of the approaching night. My breath mingled with the air, carrying an edge of autumn's chill—a harbinger of the seasons slipping through my fingers.

I wound my way through the familiar streets, the corners of buildings leaning in conspiratorially, shadowed fingers pointing toward the inevitable truth I felt stirring within me. It was the hour of homing, of returning. Each step marked a pilgrimage back to the sanctuary I'd painstakingly crafted, a refuge woven from whispered wishes and the careful stitching of solitude's fabric.

The sun sank low, surrendering its dominion to a sky awash with deep blues and twilight purples. The town nestled into the dusk, a softened landscape stretching beyond the cusp of the known. I reached the gates of my refuge and paused, steeped in the briefest moment of transition—a threshold crossing from public to private, from the world's grasp to my own.

Once inside, I began my ritual. I moved from window to window, clicking each latch shut with a satisfying finality, my fingers tracing familiar grooves worn by repetition's hands. The locks glinted bronze in the low light, old sentinels standing against the encroachment of night. Here, in this act, lay a practiced dance of security, an illusion of control tying the chaos outside at bay.

I drifted toward the kitchen, where the window framed a view of daisies standing defiant against the darkening sky. Their petals held whispers of resilience, audacious spots of white caught between the folding shadows. I leaned into the counter, the surface cool and grounding against the warmth of my skin. Here, in this still moment, I listened.

Beneath the quiet, an undercurrent pulsed with knowing—a thrumming intuition that prickled the edges of my mind, unsettling in its familiarity. It sang of something looming, an anticipation that stretched taut within me, woven into the very marrow of my being. Somewhere, beyond these walls, I sensed the shifting of forces playing out like the gathering of clouds on a distant horizon.

A breeze swept through the open window, stirring the air with a gentle insistence. The daisies danced in its wake, their movements a testament to the wayward currents of change, the winds as unpredictable as the path I felt tugging at me. I turned my gaze inward, where the persistent echo of morning's unease had grown into something more—a question etched into my bones, demanding recognition.

It was not a matter of if, but when. When would I be drawn from the shadows I'd so carefully nurtured, thrust into the glaring uncertainty that threatened to shatter the glass walls of my refuge? As I stood there, enveloped in the soft embrace of evening, the balance I'd nurtured felt fragile beneath my hands, each ounce of control slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

I straightened, taking one last look at the fading light, and withdrew back into the house—into the confinement of my own making. My fingertips brushed against well-worn surfaces, ghosts of past moments captured in the quiet. Here, within these walls, each choice and action was deliberate, a reflection of the delicate web I had spun to hold my world together.

As the night settled into its watchful calm, I moved through the space like a ghost of myself, always aware, always vigilant. It was here, in the solitude, that I found a measure of solace. Yet even in the sanctuary of my home, the ache of anticipation lingered just beyond the reach of reason, pulling me inexorably toward whatever lay ahead.

And so I waited, cradled within the breath of silence, as the dark settled deeper around me, a promise of change carried on the whispered winds of possibility.

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