I shut the door quietly. Then locked it.
I dug through the bottom drawer of my desk, behind my old sticker books and bent-up gel pens, until I found the letter. The one I’d written to him and never sent. Pages of things I’d never say out loud: apologies, promises, and confessions I’d rewritten until the ink bled through.
It was attached to the picture I’d printed, the one where he was laughing in the sun.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I tried to tear it.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t evencreaseit.
My hands shook as I held the edges, but every time I tried to rip it, something in me screamed. Something childish. Possessive. Broken.
I dropped it on the floor and then curled into myself on the bed.
The sob caught in my throat before I even knew it was coming. And then I was crying like a little kid, fists curled in my comforter, nose running, chest heaving—that kind of crying that doesn’t have a shape or a reason or a place to go.
I didn’t know how long I lay there.
But eventually the crying turned to silence.
To stillness.
To that familiar emptiness that always came after. The kind that whispered awful things in a soft, sweet voice.
You’re pathetic. You’re disgusting. You’ll always be too much. Too intense. Too clingy. Too broken.
No one will ever love you back.
I sat up slowly and then got up and walked back to my desk.
The third drawer down, buried beneath a few books and my iPhone cord, held a safety pin I’d kept for emergencies. I couldn’t even remember why anymore…maybe for a Halloween costume that never happened.
I took it out and unclipped it, turning the metal between my fingers until the point caught the light. Then I pressed it into the soft skin just below my waistband, where no one would ever see.
It wasn’t deep. Just enough to sting. Just enough to remind myself that I could still feel something that wasn’t shame.
For a second, the ache in my chest quieted. Not for long, but long enough to trick me into thinking I was okay.
The door slammed open somehow, even though I’d locked it, the handle hitting the wall like she expected to catch me doing something. I was just lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, but I flinched anyway.
My mom stood in the doorway, arms crossed, car keys dangling in her hand. Her eyes swept the room, taking everything in like it was evidence.
“Get up. We’re leaving,” she said.
I blinked at her, pushing myself up on my elbows. “Where?”
My voice came out rough, torn up from tears that wouldn’t stop. My brain was still scrambled from the last hour I’d spent crying.
She didn’t answer right away. Her stare was pure disgust, like she couldn’t believe she had to explain it.
“It’s the place Dr. Whitaker mentioned as we were leaving,” she finally said, her tone clipped, like this was logistics instead of my life. “When I told her we needed more…options than what she’d suggested. You knew this was a possibility.”
I shook my head fiercely. “No,” I whispered. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” she snapped. “You sat in that office and nodded like you understood.”
