I didn't plan on walking. I only realize I'm doing it once I'm outside—feet moving, legs carrying me forward while my mind drifts in a haze. The city is waking up around me. Buses rumble by; vendors set up fruit carts; early office workers stride past with coffee in hand. The whole world goes on.
Except mine.
I wander past storefronts, fancy boutiques with window displays I used to admire, restaurants with perfectly set tables I once imagined sharing with Ethan, laughing over wine. Now, these scenes feel like relics of someone else's life.
My phone is off to preserve battery. I can't bear to hear the buzz of notifications, the echo of public scrutiny, the rippling effect of how far I've fallen. Silence becomes me.
Avery's text came just now:
"You don't have to face this on empty. Let me meet you."
But I didn't reply. I can't. I'm moving by instinct. I need to feel the air, the pavement under my shoes, the cold edge of despair cutting me to pieces from the inside.
I reach the park I used to jog through. The same winding paths, benches beneath oak trees, the fountain where I once sat with Vanessa, sharing secrets and dreams. I pause there now, in the hush, watching a few early joggers pass by oblivious to the storm inside me.
A bench calls me. I sit. My knees ache. My hands tremble. Tears come, slow and burning. I hardly notice them until they slip past my lashes and drip down.
I whisper to the wind: "How did I get here?" My voice cracks. I'm speaking to ghosts: the ghost of me before all this, the ghost of the vows I never uttered, the ghost of trust I can't find again.
A jogger slows, gives me a concerned glance, then moves on. I don't care.
I lean my head back, eyes to the sky. It's pale, washed in morning light. So bright. So unfair.
"Scarlett?" A voice. I look up. Avery is standing beyond the tree line, hesitant, phone in hand, concern etched on her face.
"Don't come closer," I whisper. "This is mine."
She approaches anyway, seat beside me. "I'm sorry," she says simply. "If I tried sooner—"
"You didn't cause this." My voice is hollow. "I walked away trying to find… something. And all I found was emptiness."
She reaches out, takes my hand. Her touch is warm. It almost hurts. "You are not empty."
I pull the hand back. "But that's what it feels like."
She's silent. The wind brushes leaves overhead. Somewhere a pigeon coos. The world still breathes. I feel like I'm suffocating.
"I can't believe how easily they erased me," I say. "My name. My home. My fiancé. My dignity. My money. All in one swoop."
"They can't erase your heart," Avery says quietly.
I stare at my lap. "They can pretend it doesn't exist. Pretend I never mattered."
She shakes her head. "They won't pretend when you stand up. They won't pretend when everyone else sees who you are."
I sniff, wiping more tears. "I don't want to look weak in front of the world. I don't want to be the girl with the tragic story they pity. I want to be someone they envy."
"You will be," she assures me. "But for now, it's okay to break."
I close my eyes. Break. Let it all go. My thoughts tumble in a mess of memories: laughing dinners with Ethan, Vanessa's compliments disguised with poison, Margot's veiled warnings, my father's cold smile. All those moments, now sharp shards in my chest.
"Do you remember that afternoon with the cherry blossoms?" I ask, voice soft. "You and I walking, laughing, saying how someday their petals would fall and we'd call it romantic."
She nods, her throat tight. "I remember."
I try to force a smile. It curdles. "It feels like a lifetime ago."
She leans closer. "It is a lifetime ago."
The tears come again. I let them. If people see me now, let them see that this—this wreckage—is real.
After a while, Avery stands. "Come on. Let's go home. Let me feed you. Let me sit with you while you sleep."
I glance at the path. I could stay here, chase despair forever. But fatigue hums in my bones. The tears exhaust me.
I stand and shake my head. "I don't want to go home yet."
She closes her eyes, steadying. "Okay. We can stay. Sit. Breathe. But not alone."
She reaches into her bag, hands me a water bottle, a granola bar. "Eat. Sip. Stay."
I accept the bottle, unscrew the cap, drink greedily. The granola bar is dry in my mouth, crumbs falling onto my lap. I chew slowly, tasting sadness.
She watches me. "You deserve to feel safe. You deserve to heal."
I want to believe her. I want to feel that again.
"Thank you," I whisper.
We sit there a long while, until the sun climbs higher, and the park grows louder. Children's laughter, dogs barking, leaves rustling.
I rub my eyes. "I feel like a ghost walking in daylight."
"You're real," Avery says. "You have scars now, but they aren't your end."
I glance at her, longing for warmth. I want hope. But hope seems hollow.
She slides her arm through mine. "Let's walk. Back to your apartment. Let me make you tea."
I nod. My legs are stiff as I rise. The walk back feels heavier than any marathon. Each step is a protest against gravity. But I keep going. Because to stay is to drown.
As we reach the block where my apartment building sits, I pause, hands gripping the rail of the stoop. I look up at the windows. My window. My memories inside.
"Do you think they're watching now?" I ask, voice small.
"Maybe," Avery says. "But let them watch. Because when you stand again, they'll see you rise. And it'll hurt worse for them."
I swallow. The door to my building looks ominous—but I still want to walk through it. To reclaim the space.
We enter. The lobby is quiet. The elevator hums. At my floor, I hesitate.
Avery squeezes my hand. "You don't have to face it all tonight. But you're stronger than you think."
I nod. We step out into the hallway. The apartment door. The place that felt like safety but became a battleground.
I linger outside. I watch the door. I swallow.
"Let me do this," I say, voice firm. I open it.
Inside, the apartment is dim—Curtains closed, furniture displaced like an aftershock.
Avery flicks on the lights. The room wakes. Shadows retreat. The walls stare back.
I step fully inside. I shut the door. I listen to the click of the lock.
I breathe. One breath. Two. The air is stale, heavy with betrayal. But also familiar. Mine. Damaged, painful—but mine.
I turn to Avery. "Thank you for bringing me back."
She smiles tiredly. "I'll bring you back a hundred times if I have to."
I close my eyes. I fold against the wall. The puzzle of me is missing pieces. But I'm still here. Breathing. Feeling. Wounded. But alive.
In the silence of that apartment, I whisper to myself: I will rise again.