I’ve never had a boyfriend. It just never happened. Tessa knew that. I told her once, like it was nothing.
In that room, it sounded like a bonus. Like it meant I’d sell for more.
My throat burns and my eyes sting. I don’t let the tears fall. Tears make you wipe your face. Wiping your face makes you move. Movement gets you caught.
The headlights sweep again, then slide away. The engine rises and fades, rises and fades, like they’re looping.
Then it recedes.
I don’t move.
I count in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I count until my body stops begging me to run and starts begging me to breathe.
When I finally lift my head, my neck pops from the stiffness. My legs tremble when I stand. I take one step and my foot doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. It lands wrong. I stumble. I catch myself.
I keep going.
As I move, my mind keeps trying to build a story that makes sense.
This happened because I trusted Tessa.
This happened because I didn’t have family.
This happened because I was stupid.
But the more I run, the more I realize it’s simpler than that.
This happened because they pick girls who won’t be missed. And I fit.
No father. No mother. No grandma. No one close enough to notice fast.
A girl who worked a diner shift and went home and didn’t make noise in the world.
I always thought being invisible would keep me safe.
It didn’t. It made me the easiest target.
The cold deepens as the night stretches. Pine scent fills my nose, sharp and clean, and it makes me think of Grandma’s closet where she kept cedar blocks to protect her sweaters. The memory is so sudden it makes my chest hurt.
Grandma used to say, “You take care of yourself, baby. You don’t wait for someone else to do it.”
I tried.
I got a job. I paid rent. I didn’t ask anyone for help. I didn’t get into trouble. I kept my head down.
And it still wasn’t enough.
My legs start to wobble again. My calves cramp. My stomach twists with hunger and nerves. My throat is so dry it feels like it’s sticking together.
I slow to a fast walk because my body is forcing it. Every step is effort.
Then the trees thin and I see it.
A cabin.
For a second I think it’s a trick my brain is making up, the way thirsty people see water that isn’t there. But it stays solid. A low shape tucked among pines, with a porch and a dim glow behind a window. No bright floodlights. No loud music. Just quiet.
Hope hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
