But I had never—never—known what it meant to be hated with this quiet, methodical calm.
To be denied affection, reduced to humiliation and degradation.
And worse—far worse—from the one boy who had held my heart for eighteen years.
That was something deeper.
Something I didn’t know how to fight.
I reached the short flight of stone steps leading to the hall doors.
And stopped.
My body refused to move for a moment.
Just stood there.
Shaking. Breathing uneven.
Then—
I wiped my face.
Hard. Furiously.
As if I could erase everything that had just happened.
As if I could reset myself by force.
The fabric of my sleeve came away damp.
My cheeks burned. My eyes stung.
I wished—desperately—for a mirror.
To see what I looked like.
To know if I was betraying myself.
If my eyes were red.
If my mascara—barely there as it was—had streaked.
If I looked weak. If I looked broken.
I drew one last shuddering breath, forcing my lungs to steady even as my chest still trembled with the remnants of everything I’d just been forced to feel.
Then I squared my shoulders.
Control.
That was the only thing I had left.
My fingers tightened briefly at my sides before I let them fall loose again.
Calm hands. Calm face. Calm everything.
And then—
