She looks tired. Defeated. Broken.
The girl in the mirror looks nothing like the woman who used to dream about nurseries and matching Christmas pajamas. That girl smiled more. Spoke more. Laughed without thinking who might be listening.
“Pull it together, Tori,” I whisper to myself. “You’re stronger than this.”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady myself. The weight in my chest doesn’t lift, but I force myself to ignore it.
I grab my phone and sit on the edge of the bed, scrolling mindlessly through social media, anything to distract myself from the gnawing ache inside me.
I come across a post from Skye—a funny meme about the concert tickets—and I want to laugh, but I can’t. Instead, I feel apang of guilt for the lie I told her earlier. For pretending everything is fine when it’s anything but.
I set the phone down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The silence in the house feels louder than any argument we’ve ever had. It presses down on me, suffocating and unrelenting, until I finally can’t take it anymore.
I sit up, my hands shaking as I pick up my phone and text Skye.
Tori, 12:26 p.m.: Hey. Got a minute?
I stare at the screen, waiting for the typing bubbles to appear. When they do, a small wave of relief washes over me.
Skye 12:27 p.m.: Yeah bitch. What’s up?
My fingers hover over the keyboard, the weight of everything I want to say pressing down on me.
I want to tell her everything—about the appointment, the results, Chase’s reaction. But instead, I type:
Tori, 12:27 p.m.: Nothing. Just wanted to say hi.
I hit send before I can change my mind, my chest tightening as I stare at the message. Skye’s reply comes almost instantly.
Skye, 12:27 p.m.: Hi. You ok?
No. I’m not. But I can’t say that. Not now.
Not when I’m barely holding it together.
Tori, 12:28 p.m.: Yeah. Just tired.
She responds with more memes about getting battle readybefore tickets go on sale tonight, but I can’t bring myself to keep the conversation going.
I set the phone down and bury my face in my hands, the tears I’ve been holding back finally spilling over.
I cry for everything—my marriage, my husband, my dreams of a family, the person I used to be before all of this.
By the time the tears stop, I feel hollow, like I’ve poured out every last piece of myself. I wipe my face and stand, my legs trembling as I make my way to the bathroom.
I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself.
I don’t know if I believe it, but I say it anyway.
FIVE
TORI
My first fewweeks at Middle Peak are exactly as thrilling as one would expect organizing academic calendars and learning how to navigate a glitchy student portal to be—not one bit. I miss spreadsheets. I miss formulas. I miss the predictability of numbers that don’t talk back or make passive-aggressive comments about departmental budget cuts.
