It all feels very far away from me, almost like a dream.
I’ve been in Georgia for nine months now, but only started classes two months ago. It took time to get settled. DHS placed me in a temporary apartment and handed me a new name: Caroline Collins. With it came a thin layer of safety I still don’t trust.
To keep my mind busy, I picked up a waitressing job at a local Italian place. The town is small, but the college students keep it busy. At least, until May. When the students left for summer break, everything slowed. The silence came creeping back in, and with it, all the memories I’d tried to outrun.
That’s when it really hit me. My grief. My guilt. My loneliness.
I still cry when I think of Maryanne. She was so full of warmth, and Joe snuffed her out like she was nothing. She was just another casualty on his path to me.
Sometimes I can’t believe Ben still talks to me. He should hate me. Maybe part of him does. But every month, like clockwork, he checks in. He bought burner phones and managed to get one to me. We use code names like secret agents. He keeps things vague, but always lets me know that he’s okay. That the boys are okay.
I try to pretend I’m okay, too.
The truth? I’ve never felt more alone.
People at school and work are friendly, but I keep them at a distance. I have to. Getting close means making attachments. Attachments become targets, and I can’t be responsible for the loss of more innocent lives. Not again.
Every time someone laughs too loudly behind me or a car slows near my apartment, I freeze. When I see a man in a cop uniform, my throat closes. The fear never really leaves. It just settles deeper, hardens into something cold and quiet.
It’s not healthy. I know that. But it’s survival. And right now? That’s all I’ve got.
There’s a courtyard on campus that looks like something out of a magazine. I walk through it almost every day, soaking in the classical columns and the whisper of history hanging in the air.
It’s finally October. Georgia’s heat has eased somewhat, and a breeze teases the hem of my skirt and brushes my cheek, carrying the crisp scent of changing seasons. I inhale deeply. For a moment—just one—it feels like I can exhale some of the weight I’ve been carrying.
I veer off the brick path and cross the lawn to sit under one of the big oak trees, its leaves just beginning to turn yellow. The shade is warm, the light dappled across the grass. I sit with my back against the trunk, cross-legged, and pull out my laptop and notebook.
While the laptop powers up, I review notes for my freshman lit class. Despite the 8 a.m. start time, it’s my favorite. The professor is sharp, young, and loves fiction in a way that’s contagious. She’s teaching us how to dig deeper, to find the truth beneath the story through subtext and symbolism.
Everything has an underlying message, if you look hard enough.
I run my fingers through the grass as the screen finishes loading. The green blades glide between my fingers. Then, I dive in.
For the next hour, I read, highlight, annotate, and search references. School gives me structure and goals I can actually reach. Every assignment I finish brings me one step closer to my CriminalJustice degree. One step closer to doing something that matters.
When I’m done, I pack up and take the scenic route back. I cut through one of the many campus gardens, where winding paths and flowerbeds form hidden alcoves. That’s one of the things I love about UGA. It rewards curiosity. Wander, and you find things.
This particular garden spills out beside one of my favorite places: a marble fountain tucked behind a grove of trees. The stone edges are smooth from years of student hands. The water arcs and sparkles in the sun. Hundreds of coins gleam at the bottom, so many hopes, frozen mid-wish.
I pause there, just watching and listening. Letting the sound of running water soothe something raw.
Then, I move on.
The shortcut leads me back to the main walkway. I effortlessly slip into the flow of students heading toward the dorms. If you don’t walk with purpose on this campus, you’ll get trampled. That was a lesson that only took one time to learn.
Like most of them, I’m heading uphill, back to the dorms. When classes started, DHS moved me from the apartment to freshman housing. It’s not glamorous, but it’s better cover. And honestly, the daily hill climb has done wonders for my ass. I swear it’s never looked better.
Halfway up, I pass a white poster on a bulletin board I’ve seen a dozen times.
Mental Health Services for Students.It’s available, confidential, and fully covered by tuition.
Every time I pass it, I remember the promise I made to Ben a year ago: “I’ll consider talking to someone.”
I haven’t followed through. Not yet. But today, for some reason, I can’t just keep walking.
I stop, and without overthinking it, I take out my phone and snap a picture of the number.
It’s been over a year since my mom was murdered and I went into protective custody, and I’m still not okay. Maybe it’s time to admit that healing doesn’t happen in silence.
