The lawyer’s expression softens, and he lowers his voice. “You look like someone who’s trying to own up. That counts for something.”
The door to the courtroom opens, and my heart nearly stops as I see her.
Kenna.
She walks in, her head held low, but I know she’s here. I can’t miss her. The way she moves, the quiet strength in her even as she’s falling apart inside—it pulls at something deep within me. She’s with her parents, standing just behind them, but she might as well be miles away. My hands tremble at my sides as I glance at her again. She’s so much smaller than I remember, but the same fire I’ve always admired is in her eyes. She looks...broken.
I don’t think I can breathe.
I’m suffocating.
There’s a second where our eyes lock, and I swear to God the entire courtroom disappears. It’s just us. Her pain. My shame. The unfinished life we never got to live. I want to run to her, hold her, scream out how sorry I am—but I don’t move. I can’t.
The worst part isn’t the trial. The worst part is seeing her like this, seeing her in pain because of what I’ve done. If I could take it back, if I could go back and do things differently, I would in a heartbeat. But it’s too late. I’ve done the unthinkable, and now I have to face it.
I turn away, unable to keep looking at her. I don’t want her to see me like this—weak and afraid. I’ve always promised her I’d protect her, that I’d always be strong for her. But now, I’m the one who’s broken, the one who needs protection.
Then, I hear her voice. The softest, quietest thing. A broken gasp.
My heart leaps. I can’t help it. I look back, and my stomach drops like I’m falling from the highest cliff. Kenna’s standing there, tears falling down her cheeks. She’s trying to wipe them away, but it’s no use. She looks at me, eyes wide, pleading. Her lips move, forming words I can’t hear. The way her hands shake makes it hard to breathe, to think.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to myself, the words barely audible even in my mind.
The lawyer touches my shoulder, a soft warning to stay calm, but I can’t. The tears in Kenna’s eyes are too much. She’s crumbling because of me. And I don’t know what to do.
I can’t save her.
I can’t save myself.
And worse—I don’t think she even wants me to. Not anymore. Maybe the hardest part of love is realizing it’s not enough to fix what’s broken.
When I look back at my mom, she’s already crying. I can’t even look at her, not when she’s this broken. She came here for me, and I’m about to destroy her even more.
“Cole, it’s time,” the lawyer says, his voice low but firm. His hand on my back pushes me forward, forcing me to stand.
My legs are weak, like they don’t belong to me anymore. But I stand. I saunter to the defendant’s table, the weight of everyone’s eyes on me making it feel like the room is closing in. The judge looks up from the bench, his face unreadable, though I know that’s just how he’s trained to be. He’s here to do his job, to deliver the verdict, to make sure I pay for what I’ve done. And God, do I deserve it.
I glance at the jury, though I already know the decision’s been made. You can tell by their faces—the mix of discomfort and certainty. They’ve already turned the page on me.
The silence in the courtroom is deafening as I sit down, my knees shaking beneath me. My lawyer gives me one final, almost reassuring glance before turning his attention to the judge.
“This is a sad case,” the judge begins, his voice low and steady, “one that has affected a great deal of lives. Cole Carter has pled guilty to the charges before him, and though we cannot undo the damage, we can move forward with sentencing.” He looks directly at me, as though trying to gauge my very soul. I meet his gaze, unable to look away.
“There are victims’ families here,” he continues, and his words feel like a physical blow. “But these are the people who will bear the weight of this decision for years to come. The sentence willreflect both the severity of the crime and the defendant’s character.”
Character. That word twists in my stomach like a knife. I think of all the times I said I was a good person, that I was just in the wrong place, with the wrong crowd. But maybe I’m not just unlucky. Maybe I’m just...wrong.
My breath hitches. What does that mean? What kind of sentence does that imply?
The judge adjusts his glasses and flips through some papers. I swallow hard and glance toward Kenna. She’s still crying, but she’s trying to stay strong, trying not to break. She looks down at her hands, her fingers twisted in her lap, and I feel like I’m losing her all over again.
The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity before the judge finally speaks again. “The court has reached a decision.”
I clench my fists, willing my body not to shake, to hold it together.
“I’ve come to a decision. I am sentencing Cole Parker to ten years at Glenwood Correctional Facility.”
The words hit me like a freight train. Ten years. Ten years away from everything. Away from my family, my friends, Kenna.
