"I thought you said you would only text Mom and Dad." Teresa raises an eyebrow.

"Dariel tends to overwork and Minho has recently been diagnosed with epilepsy. I need to check up on them."

07:55 PM

Heyy, how is everything going?? Highkey already miss you and want to come back

Don't worry, everything is completely fine over here. And enjoy your time please, you deserve a break. No need to worry about us. LY

LYM. I can't wait for the apartment. Should we go shopping when I come back?

Sounds good. Now go relax, Lucy !

Wait
Can we buy a cat

Possibly

Or at least a fish
Pleaseeeeeeeeee

I don't care even if you'd turn our house into a zoo
Wait

What? Did you just buy us a cat?????

Erm
No
I'm trying to send money but it doesn't work

It's because of the burner phone
But no money needed!!!!!! Spend it on the cat please

We'll see

Can we call

Yes
But this is not you taking the break you said you were going to take

I AM taking a break

Oh for sure

Ok, if you say so

I put the phone down and look up at Teresa. "Do you reckon we should get a cat?"

"Definitely."

"I knew you'd say that," I laugh, leaning back against the couch. "I just need Dariel to actually go through with it. He always says 'we'll see,' and then I can't tell if he likes the idea or not."

"Hey, if you want a cat, you don't need his permission." Teresa gets up, stretching. "Anyway, I'm gonna shower. Feel free to snoop through my stuff."

I shake my head, but do actually stand up to wander around her apartment. There are little touches of her personality everywhere. A stack of books on the nightstand, some half-burned candles, a corkboard on the wall near her desk with pinned photos and random notes.

I pause in front of the corkboard, my fingers grazing over a familiar photo—one I haven't seen in years. It's me and Teresa as kids, maybe eight and twelve, standing in front of our old elementary school. I have a gap-toothed smile, my hair in uneven pigtails, and Teresa has her arm slung around my shoulders, making a goofy face at the camera.

I hate it.

I hate childhood pictures. I hate them. They remind me of things I've tried so hard to forget about. It was going well all these months—moving in with Dariel, helping Minho out, playing Sandy—it all distracted me. 

That picture was the same day I'd hidden in the bathroom, my stomach in knots because I didn't want to go outside. I knew what would happen if I did.

A sick, crawling sensation spreads through me, and before I can stop myself, my mind drags me back—back to the things I swore I'd never think about again. I can hear the whispers, the giggles behind my back. The feeling of my stomach twisting when I heard my name, the way my hands clenched around the straps of my backpack, the way my heart raced when I realized I was trapped.

It started small. At first, it was just words. Cruel little whispers in the hallways. Snickers when I spoke up in class. Comments that were always just barely subtle enough for teachers to ignore.

"You really think you're gonna be famous?"
"God, you try way too hard."
"Acting isn't even a real career. You're just embarrassing yourself."

I told myself they were just jealous. That they didn't matter. That I didn't care.

One day, I found my scripts shredded in my locker, the torn pages stuffed into my backpack with a note that read: "Here, practice this instead."

Another time, I walked into class and realized my chair was missing. When I turned to ask about it, someone stuck their foot out, and I went sprawling onto the floor. Laughter erupted around me.

I never understood why they did that to me. I hadn't done anything wrong. I remember the day they shoved me into a supply closet and locked the door. It was dark, and no one came looking for me for hours. I pounded on the door, screamed, begged, but all I heard were their footsteps fading away.

Another time, I was walking home when a group of them followed me. I tried to ignore them, to keep my head down, but then someone grabbed my backpack and yanked me backward. I hit the pavement hard, my hands scraping against the concrete. They laughed, kicked my bag across the road, and walked away like nothing happened.

No bystander ever said a word about it, and neither did I. Because deep down, a part of me believed them. Believed that I was pathetic. That my dreams were stupid. That I was wasting my time.

So I stopped. I stopped auditioning, stopped writing, stopped believing I could ever be anything more than what they said I was.

I chose medicine because it made sense. Because it was practical, logical, something no one could criticize me for. Because it was the safest way to make sure no one could ever look at me the way they used to. Helping people. No one would laugh at me for that.

They laughed when I told them I wanted to act. How they would wait for me after school, not to hurt me at first, but just to make sure I knew my place.

I remember the cold, hard floor of the school bathroom against my back. The way my spine arched when they grabbed my arms, yanking them in the wrong direction, twisting until the pain was so sharp, so unbearable, that I thought my bones would snap.

I remember the pressure of a knee digging into my stomach, pinning me down as I struggled to breathe. The sting of fingernails scraping against my skin. And then came the real pain.

One of them had stolen my bag earlier that day, and I hadn't thought much of it. I was used to it. Used to my things being taken, torn, thrown away. They pulled out my script. My favorite one. The one I had written by hand, with notes, with lines I had memorized and rehearsed a thousand times. And right in front of me, they tore it apart.

Piece by piece. Slowly. Deliberately.

The sound of the paper ripping was louder than anything else in the room. Louder than my heartbeat, louder than their laughter, louder than the sharp, searing pain in my arms.

I don't remember how long I stayed on that floor after they left. I don't remember getting up. I just remember the cold. The silence. The feeling of being completely, utterly alone.

High school was fine. I was too scared to make friends, but I felt safe. No one was there to laugh at me. Minho was the only person I thought knew something, always looking at me like that

Then came Dariel.

He's safe. He's stable. He's predictable.

There are no games, no second-guessing, no moments where I have to wonder if he secretly despises me. He doesn't play with emotions, doesn't make me feel like I'm always one step away from being abandoned. There is security. Certainty.

I like that. I need that.

Minho, in fact, sometimes looks at me like I'm the most important thing in the world—and other times, like he couldn't care less.

I hate that a part of me likes that, too. Because isn't that what I spent my whole life running from? Maybe it's because he reminds me of who I could have been. Minho and his friends do what they like. They don't care what others think.

I guess I learned to become happy by watching other people be happy. My parents, Dariel, Minho. All I need is stability. Just someone around me who will control everything.

Someone like Dariel. Dariel will stay right where he is. If I disappear for a while, he won't get angry, he won't leave, he won't make me feel like I'm fighting for my place in his life.

I can breathe around him. I don't have to chase him, and I don't have to run from him either. All I've ever wanted.

I pull out the burner phone again, my throat fully blocked. With all these memories circling back to me, I just need to make sure he knows.

I love you. I'm still sorry about the fight. I don't mind what you did. Please don't worry about it. Glad we'll move in soon. x