My throat burns. “I won’t.”
“I’m proud of you. You built a life on your own terms, and you’re not dependent on anyone. That’s strength, baby. Don’t ever lose it.”
There it is. The mantra I grew up with.
Independence above all else.
I force a smile. “I won’t.”
“Good.” The approval in her tone is cool and practiced. “Now, get some sleep. You sound like you need it.”
“Night, Mom.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
The line disconnects, and I stare at my phone until the screen fades to black, her voice still ringing in my head.
You’re not dependent on anyone.
I sink to the edge of the couch, towel loosening around me in the process. The photo of her gleams faintly from across the room, that perfect smile frozen in place.
She’s everything I was raised to become.
Polished.
Unflinching.
Alone.
Maybe she’s right about strength.
Or maybe strength is knowing when to stop pretending you’re not looking for something more.
I don’t know.
And that’s the problem.
My reflection stares back at me from the window, pale and hollow, the outline of a woman who thought she’d mastered the art of composure.
“I’m fine,” I whisper to myself.
The lie settles like lead in the quiet as my phone lights up again.
Big D: I was serious, baby. We’re not done.
My fingers hover over the screen before curling into a fist. I push away from the couch and head into the bedroom, the pad of my footsteps the only sound in the quiet apartment. After setting the phone face down on the nightstand, I slip into a tank top and shorts before sliding beneath the sheets.
Only then do I reach for the phone. I stare at the device for a few moments before setting it back down again and sinking deeper into the sheets, letting the quiet wrap around me.
But sleep doesn’t come easily.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hands.
His mouth.
I hear his voice.
There’s no more running, Rina.
