And Jamie? Not a single word.
Well, fuck them both.
Let them sit with the same silence I’ve been drowning in.
Still, my eyes betray me every time my phone lights up. Still, I keep it charged, screen facing up, like some pathetic beacon.
It’s pathetic, really. I used to be the girl who threw parties that made the campus paper.
When I look in the mirror, my reflection looks older. Not wiser. Just… more dumb, more tired.
My father’s words keep looping in my head—make her reconsider.
I don’t know what he expects me to do. Mom hasn’t spoken to me in days. And we never have any substantial conversation…not since the trial started. She moved back in with her parents in Neuilly-sur-Seine, trading California sunshine for Parisian exile.
And that she’s now learning to bake.
But maybe if I show up—if I try—maybe that counts for something.
I stare at my calendar, a stupid pink square marking midterms week. I can’t focus anyway. My grades are slipping, my reputation’s ruined, and every time I step on campus I can feel the whispers crawl across my skin.
Maybe a week away would help.
Or maybe I just want to stop being the version of Chloe who walks through campus like a bruise.
I shove a few clothes into a duffel—jeans, sweaters, one decent coat—then zip it shut. The zipper sticks halfway, and I sigh.
The room smells faintly like dust and lemon cleaner, the ghost of a life that used to feel safer. I used to live here when everything was simpler—before the house, before Miles, before my name was written in lipstick across a wall.
When I close the door behind me, the sound echoes. Hollow.
Outside, the air bites at my cheeks. The trees along the street are turning—reds, yellows, that brittle kind of beauty that always looks like it’s about to collapse.
It’s funny. A week ago, I thought I could still fix things. I thought keeping my head down, pretending not to care, would make it stop.
But the truth is, rot spreads quietly. You don’t even notice until the whole house starts to smell.
So I’m done waiting.
If my father wants me to convince my mother, I’ll go. If nothing else, maybe seeing her will remind me what it feels like to be someone’s daughter instead of everyone’s mistake.
I book the ticket before I can change my mind.
When the confirmation hits my inbox, I stare at it for a long time.
Flight to Paris – Departing 10:20 PM.
The cursor blinks at the end of my mother’s number in my phone. I typeI’m coming homethree times before deleting it every time.
Instead, I close the message.
I’ll just show up.
She hates surprises, but maybe she’ll make an exception for the daughter she doesn’t really want to see.
And maybe if I can fix this one thing, it’ll make everything else hurt a little less.
Neuilly-sur-Seine looks like a watercolor painting someone forgot to finish. Muted colors. Quiet streets. The kind of beauty that feels heavy instead of light.
