All right.
If it’s a fight you want, Amara, I’ll give you one.
I get up, knowing if there’s a fight that defines everything I’ve built and burned and become, it’s this one.
22
Amara
I’m halfway through packing when I realize I’ve folded the same linen blouse three times.
Get it together.
You’re a litigator.
You’ve survived depositions that lasted seven hours.
You can fold a goddamn shirt.
But my hands won’t stop shaking.
The op-ed is still open on my phone, sitting on the nightstand like a venomous little snake.
THE WOMAN BEHIND SAELINGER’S REDEMPTION TOUR: ENABLER OR ACCOMPLICE?
Every time I look at it, my stomach lurches, like I’m in an elevator that dropped three floors.
I stuff the blouse into my suitcase without bothering to refold it. Who cares. It’s linen. It’s going to wrinkle anyway. That’s what linen does. It wrinkles and reminds you that perfection is a lie.
Enabler or accomplice.
Like those are the only two options.
Like I couldn’t possibly be a competent professional who believed in a project and got caught in the crossfire of someone else’s vendetta.
But that’s not how the court of public opinion works, is it? In the real court system, we have rules of evidence. Burden of proof. Presumption of innocence.
On the internet, you’re guilty until proven entertaining, and even then, they’ll screenshot your worst moments and pass them around like trading cards.
I zip the suitcase closed. Or try to. The zipper catches on the stupid blouse I couldn’t fold properly.
Of course.
I yank at it, feeling my eyes burn with tears I absolutely refuse to shed. I’m not crying over a zipper. I’m not crying over an op-ed. I’m not crying over the fact I spent seven weeks and three days building something that felt real, only to watch it crumble in a single morning because some vindictive asshole decided to burn it all down.
Seven weeks and three days.
With Corin.
And now I’m running.
Again.
Even though I said I wouldn’t.
PromisedI wouldn’t.
Exhibit A: Amara Khan is a liar.
