An old memory, a new life (it should be the other way around)

by TruthBulletsGoBrrrr

Summary:

Alya was just going to show around the new kid in her class around the school and help her get her settled in, it was her job as the class rep after all. But she watched as weird things happened around her, well weirder than usual, and as those weird things began to affect herself. They were leaving her with so many questions.

Who was this kid?

Why is she so familiar?

What was happening inside her own head?

Why was this so thrilling?

Notes:

• For FoofyFang.

When the paragraphs have these ( ) in the middle, just a quick heads up is that these are her deepest thoughts that she would under no circumstances tell anyone. Yet. Please don't be hateful in the comments.

Edit: Sorry, this chapter was me just grammar checking.

Chapter 1: New kid?

The past few days have been quite challenging. Not only did she get into an argument with her older sister (again) about the lack of care for her safety but she also hasn't found another job ever since the massage parlor she worked at closed up shop randomly (her job was just her talking to the customers and trying to get them to buy things they'll forget about as soon as they set it down on their coffee table). The old man had gotten dementia, and his former lover was taking him to China to help take care of him (even though she doesn't look to be far from losing her memories herself)

To top it all off, her parents were still trying to get her into going to therapy or seeing the school counselor (she wasn't trying to get herself killed. She wasn't. She follows the akuma attacks and records from a healthy distance for her blog, she just sometimes happens to be above or below a collapsing building or the villain comes charging at her) no she won't stop chasing the battles (even it she does somehow end up getting hurt or killed Ladybug would just bring everyone back like she always does. It is as good as new. It doesn't even hurt all that much anymore, and she's pretty sure the rest of Paris has gotten used to the feeling of being dead, so it should be fine)

Alya was just heading to school after having spent half an hour chasing an akuma battle with Ladybug and Chat Noir for the Ladyblog and finishing up some last-minute edits when she saw the time: 8:15 am

“Crap” she was so gonna be late if she didn’t pedal faster she wished she had a moped like the one in her dreams or at the very least more money so that she could buy one. It’s not her fault that she has no impulse control when going past the famous Dupain-Cheng Patisserie outside her school; the smell alone would make any person who had just eaten a full twelve-course meal feel like they were starving. She quickly chained her bike to the bike rack and grabbed her school bag before speeding up the stairs to class, only just making it before the bell rang. She took her seat in the first row opposite Nino and Adrien as everyone waited for the teacher to arrive.

A tall redheaded woman had her hair in a loose bun and had walked into the class holding what Alya noticed to be their year group's standard textbook collection with a sticky-note pad, a notebook, and a standard pencil case. The woman was wearing a white blazer and a navy blue button-up shirt with white pants and high heels - how that woman managed to walk up steel stairs wearing those, Alya would never know - as she gave the class a beaming smile as she ushered another pair into the class. The first was the school principal, Mr. Damocles. With his plump figure and brown suit, he was a bald man with a well-groomed beard that covered half his face and big eyebrows that seemed to remind everyone of an owl. His piercing gold eyes swept across the class, slowing to stare at the vacant seats. Lila was away at home after returning from a trip to Italy with her mother, and Alix was just gone. Alim Kubdel, her father, sent her to Cairo after an akuma had attacked the Louvre with the entire family inside. It was the final straw for the man as he sent his youngest child to stay with her aunt - his sister - and their family. Alix had told them before she left that her father had tried to send Jalil as well, seeing as he was a legal adult with all the necessary adult things like a degree, a license and car, and an apartment of his own, not to mention a well-paying job. He was allowed to stay (although he was the akuma that attacked the Louvre and the other members of the Kubdel family inside), but it was clear that the museum director was not pleased with his son's decision.

“Good Morning class” Mme. Bustier called with her ever-present beaming smile and gentle eyes, you would think that she was the happiest person in the world if you didn’t look closer. Extra concealer likely hid the bags from lack of sleep and the way her fingers trembled and squeezed the books she was holding or the way she was tapping her foot against the hardwood floors. Was she nervous about something? or was it because of an attack so early in the morning that’s gotten her stressed? Their homeroom teacher was never known for letting what she was feeling at the moment show, so maybe something happened or is happening that’s gotten her so anxious.

Alya looked to Mr. Damocles, and she saw the very same thing going on with him as well, and that made her nervous. She looked to her classmates, and they had seen it too or were still trying to notice. ‘What’s going on that has them both so stressed’ She’s pulled from her thoughts as the Owl-look alike principal cleared his throat loudly getting everyone’s attention “now that I have everyone’s attention I would like to introduce you all to a new classmate of yours that will need to be shown around during lunch break, do I have any volunteers?” Before she could fully process what she had heard and re-sort her thoughts, her arm was already in the air. “Ah, Miss Césaire, wonderful, as expected of the class representative.” She blinks and forces herself to smile.

She has a feeling that she should regret this if the shiver down her spine or the tingle in her chest is anything to go by.

This is going to be exciting.

Principal Damocles and Mme. Bustier both usher in a short girl of Asian descent with black hair as dark as the night sky with a sheen like the night stars that fell to her shoulders gently, she had pale skin made even more prominent by the dark circles under her blue eyes with a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. The girl was small, and she looked smaller with a baggy T-shirt and oversized jacket with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The only things that looked like they fit her were her pink pants and white shoes. she was wearing a bracelet with wooden beads painted different colors tied together by a red string around her wrist. This girl looked tired, and not just from staying up late; she looked tired of waking up, she looked tired from just standing and staring, and that made Alya feel tired. She also looked scared and sad for some reason, and that too made Alya feel scared and sad.

"class this is Marinette Wang she'll be your new classmate from this point on" Mme. Bustier chimed with false chipper but when her gaze fell to the girl standing beside her her eyes softened and voice smoothed to something more real "Marinette why don't you take a seat in the front row next to Alya, she'll be showing you around the school during lunch" the girl nodded mutely as she took stiff steps before sitting next to the blogger.

_ _ _ _ _ _

The day went by quickly than she was expecting because as soon as she went to pack her things, she felt Mme. Bustier tapped her on the shoulder and nodded her head towards her new seatmate who was also packing up her things.

" So, Marinette, is there anything you'd like to see first?" "The cafeteria, please." "Right, come on, it's just this way."

They walked in silence, and Alya noticed the way Marinette would at times let her tired gaze wander and drift to other parts of the school before returning to her with a look of somber nostalgia as she gave the new girl a tour. It was making Alya even more curious about this new girl and where she had come from. Did she go to Francois Dupont before Alya herself arrived? Alya quickly threw that idea out the window because if she had she wouldn't have needed the tour because the building of Collège Francois Dupont hadn't at all changed in the last nine years and this girl was her age if maybe a bit younger by a few months or a year, and if she had had an older sibling who attended Francois Dupont then wouldn't she be more familiar with the school? this girl made Alya curious (not that she already was), and it was making her excited at the prospect of a new mystery to unravel, especially after the whole Lila debacle.

She shivered just thinking about Lila Rossi was enough to make her shudder and Grimace.

She jolted when she felt something cold touch her arm. It was Marinette, and she was looking at Alya intensely, her dull, tired eyes replaced by concern and worry. Alya smiled reassuringly as she began fiddling with her glasses "sorry about that I have a habit of getting lost in my head" the short girl nodded softly before opening her mouth "We're at the cafete-" she was cut off by a loud banging noise followed by a series of shattering sounds and sirens. BANG. BANG. BANG. Every bang was accompanied by a large quake. "AKUMA ALERT. AKUMA ALERT. EVACUATE THE AREA IMMEDIATELY AND HEAD TOWARDS A DESIGNATED SHELTER. PLEASE KEEP AWAY FROM THE AREA WHERE THE AKUMA HAS BEEN SIGHTED. I REPEAT: EVACUATE AND SEEK SHELTER. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO GET IN THE PATH OR VICINITY OF THE AKUMA." Alya sighed. she would love to go chase the akuma for a new story, but she had a job to do, and that was looking after the new kid. Yes, even from sad people getting possessed by evil butterflies and turning into rampaging monsters. The ladyblogger looked to her side, where she was expecting to see a large hoodie curled into a ball of some sort, only to see tiled flooring and air.

"crap"

Chapter 2: Gone? what's gone?

Notes:

I hope you enjoy this chapter, sorry for the delays.

Alya bolted through the cafeteria doors, sneakers skidding against the polished tile as she whipped her head left, then right.

“Marinette!” she hissed, too afraid to shout, too tense to breathe. Nothing. Just the emergency lights flickering red against metal lockers and the rising pitch of warning sirens bouncing off the walls.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“She was right next to me,” she whispered to herself, heartbeat pounding behind her ears. “She was just—”

(She just got here. She doesn’t even know the layout yet. She couldn’t have gotten far.)

Except she had.

Alya checked behind the vending machines, under the stairwell, and even in the supply closet, where she had once gotten stuck during a lockdown drill. Nothing. Just the cold echo of her breath and the distant rumble of another explosion two blocks down. The ground trembled beneath her sneakers. You’re not supposed to be out here, Alya reminded herself. You’re supposed to go to the shelter. That’s the protocol. But Marinette didn’t know that. Marinette didn’t know anything. She’d vanished before the alert even finished playing.

Her stomach twisted.

Something’s wrong.

She yanked out her phone, thumbs moving fast. No signal. Emergency jammers were up—up-standard during an Akuma attack. No calls. No messages. Not even the Ladyblog would load.

“Ugh,” she muttered, smacking her phone against her palm. “You had one job.”

(She didn’t run. She didn’t look scared.)
(She looked… focused.)
(That doesn’t make sense.)

Another tremor rocked the floor. A crash of glass somewhere in the west wing made her jump. Sirens flared louder. Okay. Enough. Shelter now. Find her later.

She turned toward the hallway leading to the underground gym—its reinforced walls made it the default shelter for students during attacks. Her mind raced as fast as her legs.

Unless Marinette had gone the other way. Unless she was hurt. Or worse.

Unless—

Alya skidded to a stop at the stairwell landing.

Something moved.

A blur—too fast, too sharp—darted into the shadow of the stairwell below. Not running from danger.

No. Running toward it.

Alya’s breath caught.

(Her hoodie was pink.)
(She was fast.)

“…no way,” she whispered.

Was that—?

Before the thought could fully form, the building shuddered again and dust drifted from the ceiling tiles.

That was her cue.

“Later,” she muttered, dragging herself toward the shelter doors. But the image lingered in her mind: dark hair flicking past, oversized sleeves catching air, a movement too fluid to be accidental. Too familiar.

The shelter buzzed with a dull, humming tension. Metal benches scraped against the reinforced gym floor as people shuffled in. Voices murmured low and anxiously.

Alya sat near the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes glued to the door, half-expecting Marinette to stroll in and laugh off her absence with a sheepish grin and a “Sorry! Got a little turned around!”

She didn’t.

Students filed in. Teachers counted heads. No one said a word about her.

Alya’s gut churned.

(She just got here.)
(She shouldn’t know where to run.)
(She shouldn’t have left.)

Nino dropped down next to her a few minutes later, breathless and sweaty under his beanie. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Alya said automatically.

He wiped his forehead. “You were with the new girl, right?”

“Yeah.” Her stomach twisted. “—She ran off.”

“What, toward the sound?”

Alya hesitated. “…I think so.”

He blinked. “Dang. She’s braver than I.”

“Or stupider,” she muttered, no heat in the words—just a low throb of unease. “She didn’t seem like the type. She didn’t even flinch. She just disappeared.”

“Maybe she panicked,” Nino offered. “People do dumb stuff when they’re scared.”

“That’s the thing.” Alya’s brow furrowed. “She didn’t look scared. She looked… focused.”

“Like—what, mission-focused?”

“No. Not like she had a plan. Like she knew what she was doing. Like she’s done it before.”

Nino went quiet.

“Civilians don’t usually do that.”

“No. They don’t.”

(She didn’t scream.)
(She didn’t trip.)
(She just… left.)

“She’s not acting like someone new to this city. Or this school. Or this life.”

“You think she’s lying?”

“I don’t know.” Alya let out a frustrated breath. “She feels like déjà vu. Like—I’ve met her before. Or I should’ve. Or like… she’s missing something I should remember.”

Nino gave a low whistle. “That’s kinda spooky.”

Alya gave a hollow laugh. “You’re telling me.”

The shelter lights flickered—once, twice—then steadied.

“AKUMA NEUTRALIZED,” the intercom blared. “ALL CLEAR. RETURN TO CLASSROOMS IN AN ORDERLY MANNER.”

Alya rose slowly, gaze locked on the gym doors.

Marinette hadn’t come back.

She tightened the strap on her bag, jaw set.

If this girl were lost, Alya would find her. If she was hiding… well.

This mystery was just getting started.

The hallways after an Akuma attack were always quieter—not silent, but subdued, like a shaken beehive settling after smoke. Students trickled back in with tired feet and tight mouths. Those who’d seen something spoke only in fragments.

Alya walked slower than the rest.

Not out of fear. Out of thought.

(She wasn’t in the shelter.)
(She didn’t show up after.)
(She didn’t text. Didn’t call. She doesn’t exist on the class chat at all.)

Maybe the others hadn’t noticed. Maybe they were too busy calming down. Too distracted by Ladybug’s victory. Too numb to question the strange.

But Alya noticed.

She always noticed.

Ever since she’d first watched a building collapse with her phone in her shaking hands, Alya hadn’t reacted to danger the same way.

The first few times, she cried. Shook. Hugged her parents and lied through her teeth.

By the tenth?

It felt like watching a documentary underwater. Real—but muffled. Loud—but distant.

(You can’t panic if you’re not all the way here.)

That was the trade. That was how she’d gotten good at spotting what didn’t fit. Because she stood a step to the side of the world, camera raised, pen in hand, always watching.

Mysteries made more sense than people.

A missing girl was easier to solve than the ache in her chest.

She reached the stairs. Didn’t remember climbing them. Didn’t know if Nino followed. She turned the corner and froze.

Marinette was there.

Sitting calmly in her seat, hair tousled, pink pants dusty, hoodie zipped up tight. Her bag rested at her feet like it had never left.

No one looked twice. No one whispered.

It was like she’d never gone.

Alya crossed the room and dropped into her seat. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just deliberate enough to say: I saw.

Marinette turned her head. Their eyes met—blue, unreadable, unafraid. Not apologetic.

Just… waiting.

“You okay?” Alya asked.

Marinette blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. I—I thought I saw a faster way to the shelter. Took a wrong turn.”

Wrong turn. Alya’s eyes drifted to her sleeves. The way they hid her knuckles. The way her breath hitched—barely.

(You’re a bad liar.)
Or maybe… You forgot how.

Maybe something made you forget.

Alya looked down at her notebook. Didn’t flip it open. Didn’t even pretend to take notes.

She just sat there.

And started writing.

"Who is Marinette Wang?"

Notes:

Sorry for the delay, I had NCEA, Assessments, a funeral for my grandfather, and then found out the reason I was unaware of the funeral of my childhood friend is because I wasn't made apart of our old class's Group Chat and found out from my cousin, who came to comfort me believing I was apart of the Group Chat, and my mum getting a phone call from my friends aunt and an invite to the funeral.

Technically, the funeral happened three years ago, but I've only recently found out the reason I was the LAST person to find out, it's because I wasn't part of the GC that my classmates and some others were a part of.

So technically, Ao# Curse Avoided?

Chapter 3: Threads

Chapter 3: Threads

The hallway smelled of burnt toast and disinfectant. Alya’s shoes squeaked against the linoleum, backpack heavy against her shoulders. She’d tried not to think about Marinette all day, tried to convince herself that maybe the blur, the vanishing, the way she’d slipped into the shelter like a ghost…was nothing.

(But ghosts didn’t leave prints. Ghosts didn’t breathe the same air)

She slid into her usual seat near Nino and Adrien, letting her bag thump to the floor. Her notebook lay open, a fresh page staring up like it was daring her to write. She didn’t write. Not yet. She waited. Let the nerves settle. Let the déjà vu curl in the back of her skull like a cat winding around a warm leg.

The teacher droned on about fractions, about the importance of showing work, about the way numbers didn’t lie. Alya nodded absently, one ear half-tuned to the lecture, the other straining for…something. A pattern. A detail. A flicker. Anything that might remind her why Marinette Wang felt like a memory she couldn’t place.

(But she’s there)

By third period, Alya’s focus had frayed entirely. Her pen scribbled notes that weren’t for math: observations. Hair length. Sleeve cuffs. Eye shadow. Knots in the shoelaces. Patterns in posture. How Marinette held her shoulders when the school bell rang, how she glanced at the corners of the room, how she didn’t flinch when the janitor dropped a mop bucket nearby.

(This isn’t normal. She’s ready.)
(Ready for what?Whom?)

Lunch was the only chance for a mini-investigation. Alya gathered her things and moved like a shadow toward the cafeteria, eyes scanning. Marinette sat at the far end of a table, picking at a sandwich. She didn’t look up when Alya approached. She didn’t look up, period, until Alya slid into the seat across from her.

“Hey,” Alya said, voice low, casual.

Marinette didn’t respond at first. Her fork paused midair, trembling slightly as if it had weight she didn’t want to lift. Then she nodded. A faint tilt of the head, nothing more.

“You okay?” Alya asked, softer this time.

Marinette’s eyes flicked to hers. Blue. Calm. Distant.

“Yeah.”

(That wasn’t okay. She’s lying. She’s always lying)

Alya picked at her salad. Lettuce stuck to her fork like tiny green flags of defeat. She’d have to babysit her sisters later, then patrol. And homework. And Ladyblog updates. And she wanted—needed—to follow every twitch of Marinette’s expression like a roadmap to the truth.

She tried conversation. “So…you like the cafeteria?”

Marinette shrugged. Minimalist gesture. Barely there. She chewed slowly, methodically, like she was marking time.

(She’s waiting. Waiting for me to notice. Waiting for me to slip)

“I noticed something weird yesterday,” Alya said. Voice lower, casual. Trying. “When the alarm went off…” She gestured vaguely. “…you didn’t run like everyone else. Not scared, not panicked. Not even flinching.”

Marinette’s gaze shifted. A flicker of…something. Regret? Fear? Maybe recognition. Maybe calculation.

“Shortcut,” she said, voice soft, clipped.

(Shortcut. She calls it a shortcut. Not a safe path. Not a plan. A shortcut)

Alya leaned back. Pretended to chew. Pretended to swallow her racing thoughts.

“Right,” she murmured. “Shortcut.”

Lunch ended too fast. Alya packed up, sliding her notebook under her arm, and headed toward the classrooms. She had a few hours to kill before her sisters’ bedtime. Before Rena Rouge had to chase another akuma. Before she could think, really, about what she was learning—or what she should have already remembered.

(Something’s missing. Something always goes missing)

———

Home smelled like warm bread and laundry detergent. Her sisters were sprawled across the living room, Etta on a tablet, Ella perched on the couch arm, plushie clutched tight. Alya set down her bag and rubbed her temples. She moved mechanically: plates from the fridge, snacks prepared, homework out for Etta to start. She folded laundry while scanning her phone. No akuma alerts. Ladyblog was quiet. The city outside her window glimmered and hummed.

(She’s out there. Always out there. Always watching)

Alya sat cross-legged on the floor, papers spread in front of her, pen hovering above the page. Numbers and words and doodles jumbled together. She marked corrections for her sisters’ homework with one hand while sketching small diagrams of stairwells and hallways with the other.

(She moved through those halls like she owned them. Like she knew them)

Every so often, her pen paused midair. Her gaze drifted to the window. Streetlights. Rooftops. Shadows between lampposts. She imagined pink sleeves flicking past, fleeting and impossible, always just a step ahead.

(She shouldn’t exist. And yet…)

Dinner passed in a blur of half-chewed bread and murmured reminders to drink water. Etta complained of being sleepy, Ella asked questions about school, and Alya answered on autopilot. Her mind was elsewhere: the stairwell blur, the disappearing act, the impossibly calm eyes.

(She’s waiting for me to notice. Waiting for me to see.)

After her sisters were tucked in, Alya paced her room. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sneakers squeaking against the floorboards. Her notebook lay open on the desk, pen ready. She should be resting. She should be finishing homework, updating Ladyblog, preparing for patrol. But her feet moved, and her mind moved faster, faster than her body could follow.

(Déjà vu. Déjà vu. Always that feeling that I’ve seen this before. Felt it before. But where?)

She stopped mid-step and leaned against the desk, fingers brushing sketches of hallways, doodled arrows, notes on sleeve lengths, eye shapes, knuckle positions. She thought of the shelter, of the way Marinette had slipped in silently, unseen. Invisible. Yet not invisible. Alya felt the itch of a puzzle half-assembled in her chest, edges sharp, incomplete.

(Something’s not right. Something is missing. And it’s staring me in the face)

She rubbed her eyes, sank into the chair, and forced herself to focus on algebra. Numbers blurred. Her pen traced letters instead of sums. Every equation felt like it was whispering. She wrote observations instead of homework answers.

(Hands. Eyes. Posture. Knuckles. Focused. Calm. Always calm)

The clock ticked toward midnight. Her room was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlight outside the window. The city murmured below. Cars, sirens, distant voices. Nothing unusual. And yet…her mind raced.

(She’s out there. She’s real. And she knows.)

Rena Rouge would patrol tonight. A small akuma, maybe, something minor. But Alya imagined Marinette in the shadows, pink sleeves catching the moonlight, moving toward danger as if it were nothing. Her chest tightened. Her fingers itched to write, to map, to understand.

(She’s done this before. She’s done this all before. I remember it—don’t I?)

The night passed slowly. Alya moved mechanically: shoes on, mask in place, patrol route memorized. She kept one eye on rooftops, alleys, shadows. The other on the wind, the street, the faintest flicker of movement. Pink. Hoodie. Gone. Always gone.

(She shouldn’t exist. And yet she does.)

Returning home, sneakers scuffing lightly against tiles, Alya removed her mask. Etta and Ella slept. Desk waiting. Notebook waiting. Pen waiting.

She sat. She wrote.

Blue eyes. Dark circles. Small. Baggy clothing. Focused during akuma. Knuckles hidden. Disappears. Reappears. No one notices. Why?

And at the top of the page, in bold, deliberate letters:

“Who is Marinette Wang?”

Alya stared at the words. Heart hammering. Breath catching. The question felt heavier than any akuma, more urgent than any patrol. It was a riddle she couldn’t escape. A puzzle without edges. A missing piece that didn’t want to be found.

(And yet…she’ll find it.)
(She’s here.She’s real. And I’m going to figure out why she feels like a memory I never lived.)
(Marinette Wang is the ghost of a dead girl.)
(And she’s risen back to life afraid of the thing that killed her.)

Notes:

it's actually a thematic thing with the full stops in the brackets. Because the brackets are her repressed thoughts, feelings, and things she won't say aloud, they don't stop or end, meaning they continue on even as the direct thought ends like (I'm sad) meaning she's going to continue being sad and having this thought unlike (I'm sad.) meaning she's sad and won't continue to have this thought because it's already out there and it's the main focus where her thoughts are, which is why the final three brackets have full stops.

Chapter 4: Ghost in the locker

The morning smelled like rain on asphalt and the faint tang of bleach from the janitor’s mop buckets. Alya’s shoes squeaked against the wet tiles as she wove through the hall, backpack tight against her shoulders. She kept one eye on the lockers, half-expecting the blur of pink sleeves to appear.

(It wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be normal. And yet, there she was.)

She stopped mid-step by her locker, fumbling with the combination. Something felt…off. The lock clicked differently than usual. Not broken. Not jammed. Just…different. She frowned, turning the dial again.

(Why does it feel like someone’s been here?)

Inside, nothing had moved—or had it? Alya ran her fingers over the books, the notebooks. Everything in its place. And yet, a faint pressure lingered against her fingertips, a sensation of breath and warmth that shouldn’t be there.

(A shadow. A ghost. Or a memory I forgot I had.)

The bell rang. Alya stuffed her things inside and walked toward her classroom, eyes scanning, posture tense. Marinette sat at the same desk as yesterday, hands folded over her bag, eyes forward, unreadable. The calm was unnatural, too precise, like she’d memorized the room and the students and the way the sunlight hit the floor at 8:37.

(Always precise. Always measured. Too measured)

Alya’s pen scratched across the margins of her notebook: Locker. Different. Pressure. Pink. Eyes. Calm. Every word a pulse, a clue she couldn’t fully name.

Lunch came. Alya grabbed her tray, moving toward the cafeteria like a shadow among the bustling students. Marinette was already there, the same pale, small figure, pink pants catching the muted light of the windows. Her gaze flickered once, toward Alya, then away.

“You’re early,” Alya said. Voice low. Observant.

Marinette nodded. She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Her presence said enough.

(She knows I notice. She knows I’m watching)

The chatter around them blurred into white noise. Alya noticed small details: a napkin folded over twice in Marinette’s bag, faint scuff marks on her shoes, the way she tapped her knuckles lightly against the metal of the table—not in impatience, but calculation.

(A map of her mind. A map of what she knows. And what she hides)

“Something’s wrong,” Alya whispered to herself under the table. Her fork hovered over a salad she didn’t taste. “Something about her…isn’t right.”

Marinette tilted her head slightly. A flicker, almost imperceptible, of acknowledgment. Or amusement.

The cafeteria bell rang too soon. Alya felt the tug of her notebook, the weight of observations she hadn’t written yet. She followed Marinette into the hall. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and wet lockers. Something hummed beneath the floorboards. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

(It isn’t just imagination. It never is)

She lingered by her locker again. Something…had shifted. The combination lock wasn’t right. Alya’s hand hovered over it, heart skipping.

Then: a faint scraping sound.

Not from her locker. From the next one down. She froze. Silence. Then the faintest click.

(Someone’s here. Not a student. Not a teacher.)

Alya leaned closer. The locker door shifted slightly. Empty, except…a scrap of pink cloth, faintly dusted with dirt, peeking from between the metal doors. Her stomach twisted.

(Pink. Always pink. Always her.)

“Marinette?” she whispered, though the hallway was empty. Only her breath and the echo of her sneakers answered.

She opened the locker. Nothing inside. Just the faint scent of something…familiar. Like laundry detergent, sunlight, and rain mixed together. Her fingers brushed against the metal shelves. Cold. Solid. Real. And yet…there was something else.

(Not real. Not solid. Not human)

Her mind raced. Notebook, pen, every thought cataloged and fragmented: locker, pink, calm, precise, ghost, missing. She tried to focus on rational explanations. Maybe someone pranked her. Maybe she imagined it.

But her gut twisted, a coil tightening inside her chest. She could feel it, faint but insistent, tugging at her memory. Something was missing. Something always missing when Marinette was around.

Classes passed in a blur. History, math, French. Alya’s eyes drifted to Marinette again and again. Small details: the way her sleeve rode up, revealing a bracelet with painted wooden beads. The way her hair caught the light like black silk. The faint, almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders.

(She’s carrying something. Something heavy. Something dangerous. Or something she fears. Or both.)

After school, Alya rushed home. Homework, dinner, the usual chatter with her sisters. She folded laundry while Ella narrated a fantastical story about a flying cat. Etta argued about math homework. Alya nodded, half-present, thoughts flicking back to Marinette.

(Pink. Calm. Always moving. Always just out of reach.)

By nightfall, Alya changed into her Rena Rouge outfit, the mask snug against her face, cape fluttering as she leapt onto the rooftops. Patrol route: park, east bridges, old theater. The city shimmered below her. Streetlights reflected off puddles from earlier rain.

She moved silently, each step calculated, her eyes scanning alleys, rooftops, corners. Then, a flicker of pink. A shadow moving along the eastern bridge. She froze. Breath caught.

There. There she is.

Alya followed, careful not to alert the girl—or herself. She moved like a shadow, heart hammering, mind circling. The figure stopped suddenly, crouching beside a dumpster, unseen. Pink sleeves caught the moonlight.

(Always precise. Always…prepared. What is she hiding? What has she done before?)

Before Alya could get closer, a cat darted across the bridge. Pink figure bolted. Faster than she expected. She chased. Rooftops, alleyways, the hum of Paris beneath her. Then, a sudden flicker, and the girl disappeared.

Vanished.

Again. Always gone. Always ahead. Why can’t I catch her?

Alya perched atop a building, knees dangling. Wind tugged at her cape. She watched the empty street. Nothing. And yet, the sense of presence lingered, almost tangible.

(She’s real. She’s here. She exists. And yet, she shouldn’t.)

Returning home, sneakers scuffing lightly against the tiles, Alya removed her mask. Etta and Ella slept. Desk waiting. Notebook waiting. Pen waiting.

She sat. She wrote. Notes jumbled with sketches: rooftops, bridge rails, locker doors, pink sleeves.

And at the top of the page, in bold, deliberate letters:

“Who is Marinette Wang?”

Her hand hovered over the pen, breath catching. The question carried a weight she couldn’t shake, heavier than any akuma, more pressing than any patrol.

Alya leaned back in her chair, pacing slowly with her mind, even as her body remained seated. The quiet hum of the city outside her window pressed in, a low, steady heartbeat she could follow. She scribbled, erased, circled, drew lines, arrows, connections.

(Something’s missing. Always missing. And it’s staring me in the face. She’s hiding it. She’s waiting. And I have to notice. I have to)

Her pen paused. Midnight deepened. Shadows of the room stretched long across the floor. Her mind, restless, refused to rest.

(She’s here. And I’m not done watching)

Notes:

This first chapter is basically the pilot episode for a fic idea I posted in the comments of one of FoofyFang's fanfics about Miraculous Ladybug, so I'm trying to bring that idea to life slowly. I could've made this chapter longer, but as I said before, this is basically the pilot.

The idea was inspired after I watched No Way Home with my older sister. Since I've told you that I think you can get the idea of what the story is about, this is also my first fic so please be nice and I'm still trying to work out the kinks of the story.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of I'll try to remember (please don't lose me)