I stand there, my shoulders drawn back, spine so stiff it hurts.
The warm air blows around me. It’s not comforting.
It was never meant to last,I tell myself.
But that thought makes it even worse, gutting me from the inside.
I lift my phone and dial Callie before I lose my nerve.
“Come get me,” I say in a quiet voice the second she answers. “I’m at Drew’s.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I start walking in the direction she’ll come from, unable to stand in his driveway any longer. Not with this much pain inside.
The first tear slips free before I even reach the end of his street.
I wrap my arms around myself like I can keep it all contained inside.
“Stop,” I whisper.
Another tear follows.
Then another.
And then—I’m crying.
Hard.
Messy.
Uncontrolled.
I hate crying.
I hate the way it makes me feel weak. Vulnerable.
My parents used to love making me cry.
Used my tears against me to inflict more pain.
Turned every weakness I had into something they could tear apart and rebuild. Turning me into something I no longer recognized.
Someone cold. Controlled.
A performer, unable to get close to anyone.
Until Drew.
He was the first man who ever made me feel safe instead of afraid.
Their words cycle through my head, over and over, like a brutal slashing.
“Compose yourself, Violet.”
“Stop being dramatic.”
“You’re not a child.”
