Aleah's POV
I regret sending that letter.
It was me—undone. A version of myself stripped bare, folded neatly into words and handed over to someone I barely knew. I let her see behind the carefully built facade, the one I'd spent years perfecting. And now, I wished I hadn't.
I had been running—from pain, from expectation, from the version of myself I didn't want to confront. And when she showed up, bright and unexpected, I mistook her fire for safety. I let it warm me.
But fire doesn't stay.
Now, I hold on to the embers she left behind. Tiny, glowing reminders of something that once sparked. I hold on to the broken pieces scattered in the aftermath—after she left with the quake she never knew she caused.
I was walking through the hallway, tucked inside the shelter of my thoughts, when something hit me—hard.
My body gave in before my mind caught up. I stumbled and fell, my books splaying out like wounded birds, papers fluttering down around me.
For a second, I just sat there. Not from pain, not from shock—but because part of me wanted to stay on the ground. It felt metaphorical, in the worst kind of way.
I looked around, half-expecting someone to reach out, to offer a hand, a word, a moment of rescue.
But no one did.
No prince on a white horse. No knight in shining armor.
Just me.
Me and the pounding in my chest, echoing louder than footsteps and lockers and laughter.
Just me and the reminder: I don't always get saved. Sometimes I just get back up.