There’s no noise.
No distraction.
No Parker.
Just me, alone with a thousand-pound elephant on my chest.
I curl into the fetal position, making myself smaller so I can fold into a version of me that doesn’t have to carry this.
Parker’s face is the only thing I see when I close my eyes. The face without dimples. The face with tears welling up. Noelle was right—he’s a gentle soul.
Then my thoughts revert to what I could have done and who I would have told. Who would’ve believed me?
I was a kid who was afraid for my life. My chest tightens, aching to the point that even breathing is painful.
Pressing my face into the pillow, I let out a blood-curdling scream and hope it’s muffled enough that the neighbors don’t hear and call the police. I’m at a breaking point and I need to pull myself up by the bootstraps, as Texans say, and not let it define me, but also figure out a way to make me whole again. Parker is as close as I’ve ever gotten.
The words from the notes plague my mind. I need to stop pretending and face the truth.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I didn’t know everything and I didn’t watch it happen, but I saw enough and I hid. I went back out and skated, but I knew enough. Enough to question and to doubt, especially since my dad did similar things to me before.
Could I have stopped it like Parker said?
My stomach twists violently.
I don’t know. Maybe I could have or maybe it would have made it worse.
But I should have tried.
And now, I’ve lost Parker. That singular thought carves deeper into my heart.
The way he looked at me like he didn’t recognize me. Like I wasn’t the person he thought I was.
A sob cracks through my lips, raw and unfiltered. I cry until my body gives out and exhaustion drags me under.
Even then, when my eyes are closed, I see the locker room. Nadia’s eyes and Parker walking away.
MONDAY
I wake up with swollen eyes and a headache that sits behind them as a reminder. Of everything.
My phone lies on the nightstand, dark and silent. I stare at it for a long time before I reach for it and open the thread of messages between Parker and me. The ones from before my life blew up in my face. I secretly hope that when I open my messages, there will be one from him.
There’s not. I knew there wouldn’t be. Parker is a gentle soul, and he needs time to process, but I type anyway.
Me: Are you coming to your appointment today?
I sit there, waiting and watching the screen and praying it might give me a crumb.
Minutes pass, then an hour. Nothing.
I type again.
Me: I’m sorry. Please come so we can talk. It’s a controlled environment where you can speak freely.
The message shows delivered, not read.
