Instead I feel… empty.
Like my body is choosing numbness because the alternative would fold me in half.
Footsteps approach.
Soft. Controlled.
It’s Sarah.
I don’t turn right away. I hear her stop a few feet away, like she’s giving me space on purpose. Like she knows if she touches me too soon I might shatter.
“You walked away,” she says quietly.
It isn't an accusation.
It's an observation.
I finally turned.
Her eyes are bright, but she isn’t crying. Not yet. Her jaw is tight like she’s holding everything in place with sheer will.
“I had to,” I say. My voice is too calm and I hate that.
Sarah’s gaze flicks over my face, searching. Like she’s checking for blood. For physical damage.
“You handled that better than anyone could have,” she says.
My throat tightens hard.
I swallow and nod. “But I knew if I looked at you, I would have lost it.”
Her expression shifts. It’s small, almost invisible, but it’s there. A crack. A softening.
She steps closer. “What do you need?” she asks.
The question should make me feel something.
Gratitude. Relief. Anger. Anything.
Instead my brain offers me the one thing that’s been shredding me since Sierra opened her mouth.
Answers.
But I don’t want answers here. Not in this corridor. Not with the gala breathing down our necks.
I drag a hand down my face.
“I need to get out of here,” I say. “I need to leave before I do something stupid.”
Sarah nods once, no hesitation or discussion. That’s one of the things I’ve always respected about her. She doesn’t ask you to perform.
She doesn’t ask you to explain.
She just moves.
“I’m coming with you,” she says.
I blink, caught off guard by how simple she makes it.
