My chest felt too big for my ribs, like my heart was trying to escape through my throat. My hands tingled, pins and needles racing down my arms, my fingers useless at my sides. I tasted the salt of my tears and blood. Metallic and wrong.
Then I felt it. The weight of being watched. I turned slowly, heart hammering so hard it made my vision pulse and headed back into the house.
Dad was still standing exactly where I’d left him when I chased after Anthony. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t pacing. He just stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching me with a look I’d never seen on his face before.
It was disgust. Not anger. Not grief. Disgust. My stomach clenched violently..
“So,” he said slowly, like he was tasting the word. “That’s what you are now.”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My throat felt sealed shut, like my body had decided words were too dangerous.
“Don’t,” I managed finally. The sound barely resembled my voice.
“Don’t what?” he asked, tilting his head. “Look at you?”
His gaze dragged over me—Anthony’s clothes, my damp hair, the way my hands were shaking.
Heat crawled up my neck, my skin buzzing uncomfortably, like I wanted to peel out of it.
“I feel sick when I see you like this,” he continued flatly. “Do you know that?”
Something splintered in my chest. My ribs felt too tight, like they were closing in around my heart.
“She would’ve hated this,” he said. “Hated what you’ve become.”
The words tunneled straight past my ears and lodged somewhere deep. My knees weakened. I had to lock them to stay upright. “You don’t get to use her like that.”
“Oh, I do,” he snapped. “She was the only reason I ever tried with you.”
The room went quiet except for the roaring in my ears. My vision blurred at the edges. My hands curled into fists without me telling them to.
“I stayed for her,” he continued. “I pretended for her. And now she’s gone. And all that’s left is you.”
Something folded in on itself inside me. My chest burned. A hot, acidic ache spreading outward like my heart was dissolving.
“You’re weak,” he said. “You always were. Too sensitive. Too needy.”
Each word landed with dull, repetitive force, not sharp enough to cut—just heavy enough to crush.
“And now you’ve fallen for him,” Dad sneered. “Letting him replace the spine you never had.”
My breath started coming shallow and fast. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to ground myself.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered.
“I know exactly,” he said. “Every time I look at you, I see what should still be alive.”
The air vanished.
“I wish,” he said quietly, “that it had been you.”
The sentence hit, and something snapped.
My ears rang. My heart stuttered, then raced, then felt like it dropped straight through my body. For a terrifying second, I thought I might actually lose consciousness.
“I wish you’d died instead of her.”
The pain became unbearable. Not emotional—existential. Like my body was screaming that existing itself was the wrong choice.
