I set the empty box on his dresser with a controlled motion. “You’re disgusting.”
His eyes flash. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” My voice shakes, but I don’t back down. “You’re disgusting, and I’m done.”
He takes a step forward. “Wren.” The way he says my name makes my skin crawl. Like it’s a warning and a promise at the same time.
I turn and walk out before he can say anything else, because if I stay and listen, I will start to doubt myself, and doubt is how he wins. In my room, I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palm to my mouth. My whole body is buzzing. Rage. Fear. A grief so old it feels like part of my bones.
Mom died when I was fourteen. The day they told me, I remember thinking the world looked wrong. Like the colors were too bright, like the sunlight had no business being so cheerful. I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room with Alex, his face stone, his jaw tight. I remember clinging to the idea that at least we still had each other. I was so stupid.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor. My head rests against the wood. I can’t leave. Not without money. Not with my car barely running. Not with nowhere to go. But I also can’t stay. The thought comes quietly, like a hand on my shoulder. You can leave anyway.
I wipe my face even though I haven’t cried. My eyes feel hot. My throat aches. I reach for my phone and pull up my bank app. The balance is pathetic. The cash I had was everything. My escape hatch. My oxygen.
I stare at the screen until my vision blurs, then lock it and toss the phone onto the bed. No. I’m not staying. Not after tonight. Not after he looked at me like that and said “be grateful.” Not after he proved that anything I build, he can take.
I stand up and start moving, because if I stop, I might crumble. I grab a duffel bag and begin packing like I’m in a race. Jeans. T-shirts. Hoodie. Underwear shoved in without folding. My toothbrush. The worn paperback my mom loved. My birth certificate and social security card from the little lockbox under my bed, because I learned early to keep my important papers close. The photo of Mom, finally pulled out of the book and tucked into my wallet where it belongs.
I pause at my nightstand and open the drawer. There’s a Valentine’s Day card in there from years ago. Mom bought it for me. Pink glitter hearts. A stupid joke about being her favorite girl. I never threw it away. I never could. My fingers hover over it, then I slide it into the side pocket of my bag. If I’m leaving, I’m taking the pieces of me with me.
I don’t sleep. I lie on top of the covers fully dressed, listening to the house. Every creak makes my muscles tense. Every sound feels like him. At some point, the sun starts to lighten the edges of my curtains. Birds chirp like the world is normal.
I wait until I hear Alex’s truck start. I hear the garage door rumble. I hear him back out. Then silence.
My hands are steady now. Not because I’m calm. Because something in me snapped into place.
I carry my duffel and my backpack to my car in two trips. I keep looking over my shoulder expecting him to be standing in the driveway, smiling like he caught me. But the driveway is empty. The air is cold. My breath puffs out white as I shove my bag into the backseat. I don’t leave a note. He doesn’t deserve one.
I start my Honda and it coughs like it hates me, but it turns over. The engine rattles. The check engine light is on like it always is, a tiny glowing warning that feels personal. “Just get me out,” I whisper, hand gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles pale. I back out and point the car toward the road, toward anywhere else.
My phone is at twenty percent. I turn it on airplane mode immediately. No tracking. No calls. No messages that can hook into my fear. The highway blurs by. Trees. Gray sky. The kind of winter day that looks like it’s holding its breath. The further I get, the more my body slowly unclenches, like it’s realizing it might live.
I drive for hours. I stop once for gas, using the last of my debit card and a few dollars in cash. I buy a bottle of water and a granola bar because my stomach hurts from emptiness and adrenaline.
When I get back in the car, my hands shake as I start it again. I keep expecting my phone to light up with a text from Alex. I keep expecting to see his truck in my mirror. Nothing.
By the time the landscape starts to change, I’m exhausted. The flat stretches give way to rolling hills, then sharper rises. The air looks different. Cleaner. The trees thicken. Pines, dark and tall. Mountains. I’ve never been to the mountains.
The thought should feel exciting. It doesn’t. It feels like stepping off a cliff and hoping there’s ground.
My phone is at nine percent when I see it.
A small town tucked between ridges, like it’s hiding. A wooden sign on the side of the road with the town name painted in white letters. I barely register it because my eyes catch something else.
Mae’s Diner. It sits on the corner with big front windows, warm light spilling out, and there are paper hearts taped up everywhere. Pink and red, some glittery, some obviously cut out by hand. A banner drapes across the top of the window, VALENTINE’S SPECIALS in chunky marker.
I pull into the lot like I’m on autopilot. My car rolls to a stop and I just sit there with my hands on the wheel, staring at the windows, at the couples inside, at the warmth. My stomach growls. I don’t remember the last time I ate a real meal.
I check my phone. Eight percent. “Of course,” I mutter. I shove it into my bag, yank my hoodie tighter, and climb out of the car. The cold bites my cheeks. Snow dusts the edges of the sidewalk like the town is already preparing for a storm.
When I open the diner door, a bell rings overhead. Warmth hits me immediately. Heat, coffee, butter, bacon. The smell is so comforting it makes my throat tighten.
It’s busy but not chaotic. People in flannels and beanies. A couple of older men laughing at the counter. A woman in a red sweater carrying a plate piled with pancakes. Country music playing low. And hearts. Everywhere. Heart garlands. Heart confetti on tables. A little vase with fake roses at every booth.
I hover just inside the door, suddenly unsure. I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie and my hair is a mess. I look like I crawled out of a wreck.
A woman behind the counter glances up, and her face softens immediately.
