It was raining.
The kind of rain that felt personal.
Soft at first.
Then cruel.
Like it wanted to soak into my bones and dig out the things I'd buried.
I didn't bring an umbrella.
Didn't rush to school.
Let the cold touch me.
Let it remind me that my skin still belonged to this world—even if my mind didn't.
In class, the teacher asked everyone to write an essay:
"Describe your happiest memory."
Everyone scribbled.
Laughing.
Whispering stories about birthday cakes, beach trips, and Christmas mornings.
I stared at my paper.
Then wrote:
"The day she forgot I existed."
I didn't mean it to be cruel.
It was the truth.
It was the quietest I'd ever known her to be.
And in that quiet, I felt free.
Just for a moment.
The teacher read it.
Paused.
Then asked me to stay after class.
She said she was "concerned."
I said, "You should be."
I didn't smile.
Didn't soften my voice.
Didn't shift in my seat like a good student.
Because that mask was gone.
Burned with the list.
Buried in the attic.
Forgotten in the walls.
She asked if I needed help.
I said:
"He helps me."
She asked, "Who?"
I looked at the empty chair beside me.
Smiled.
And that was the moment she saw him.
Not with her eyes.
But with her fear.
Because she stopped asking questions.
That night, I didn't speak to Lucas.
And he didn't speak to me.
We just sat at the kitchen table.
Two glasses of milk.
Two forks.
One plate.
I didn't ask where the food came from.
I just ate.
For the first time, the silence didn't press against me.
It held me.
And I held it back.
Because lies are heavy.
And I had finally put them down.