Skylar's POV
The room didn't look like mine anymore.
Half-packed boxes leaned against the wall like silent judges. Some were taped shut, the cardboard edges bulging as if they couldn't quite contain their contents. Others were left open and gaping, like mouths mid-laugh, mocking me for not being able to finish what I started. Piles of clothes lay scattered across the bed, sweaters, jeans, socks, the white lab coat I'd bought months ago before I'd even received my acceptance letter, because I needed the reminder that someday I'd wear it for real.
While other girls had their moms help them, I did mine alone because my mom never really gave me her blessings for this.
My knees pressed into the worn carpet as I sat cross-legged on the floor, rolling socks into tight little balls. I'd been doing it mechanically for ten minutes now, more focused on the rhythm than the packing itself. The sound of cardboard ripping from an earlier box still hung faintly in the air.
That's when I heard it.
Heels.
The faint but unmistakable click of heels striking the hardwood hallway outside my door. A sound that meant one thing: Elena. My sister didn't walk so much as she arrived. Whether it was the kitchen, the front porch, or my bedroom, she came in like every step was part of a performance.
I didn't look up. I kept my head down, fingers smoothing the cotton of a pair of socks, but my chest had already tightened.
The door didn't knock. It swung open hard enough to hit the wall with a dull thunk.
"Well, well," Elena's voice was velvet over glass. "Packing for your little runaway adventure?"
I didn't even blink. "It's called college, Elena. You should try it sometime."
She stepped inside, and the sweet, cloying scent of her perfume filled my space without permission. It was the expensive floral kind, the sort that made people lean in and ask what you were wearing. We had the same honey-brown hair hers glossy and styled to frame her face perfectly, mine pulled into a messy bun that had been falling apart since morning.
She leaned her hip against my dresser, letting her eyes roam over the chaos. "Mom's still upset, you know. You could've at least pretended to think about politics before throwing away your chance."
I stilled, one sock still in my hand. "I'm not throwing anything away. I'm choosing something for myself."
"That's what selfish people always say."
Her tone was light, like she was making an observation about the weather, but it still lodged under my skin like a splinter.
I put the sock down slowly, turning my head to meet her eyes. "What do you even want, Elena?"
She smiled then not the kind that warmed you, but the kind that made you brace for impact. "I just thought I'd help… make sure you're not sneaking anything inappropriate into your dorm. Like—oh, I don't know—more of those secret journals you write in about how awful we all are?"
My spine straightened. "What?"
"Oh, please." She waved a manicured hand like I was being dramatic. "You think I don't know? You hide them under the loose floorboard in your closet. You're not exactly subtle." Her voice had gone sing-song now, each word deliberate, like she wanted to stretch the moment. "If Mom and Dad knew half the things you wrote about them "
"Stop." My voice was low, almost a growl.
Her eyes glittered. "Or maybe I should read some of it out loud tonight at dinner. I mean, it's only fair. If you're going to leave, they should know what you really think of this family."
The air between us thickened. My pulse thudded against my ribs as I rose from the floor, closing the space between us until we were nearly eye to eye. "Those journals are mine. You have no right "
She tilted her head, stepping closer. "You're not the golden child anymore, Skylar. I am. And I'm not letting you waltz off to play doctor without consequences."
It hit me then this wasn't about the journals. It wasn't even about me leaving. It was about her needing to win.
"This isn't about me leaving, is it?" My voice shook, not from fear but from how much I wanted her to admit it. "You've hated me ever since Dad started praising my grades more than your "
"Shut up!"
"No, you shut up!" My voice cracked sharp enough to hurt my throat. "You don't care about me, you don't care about what I want you just want me to fail so you can feel better about yourself!"
Her face flushed deep red, the mask slipping. "You think you're so much better than me?"
"I think I'm different from you," I snapped. "And that scares you."
Her hand darted forward, aiming for the half-folded shirt on my bed. I grabbed it first.
"Give it "
"No!"
We tugged once a sharp, jerking motion. Then her hand swung wider than she intended, the heel of her palm cracking against my cheek.
The sound was louder than I expected.
For a moment, the world went silent. My cheek burned, a hot sting radiating outward. I could feel the exact shape of her hand imprinted against my skin. Her eyes widened but I couldn't tell if it was guilt or just fear of being caught.
"You—" My voice trembled. "You hit me."
"It was an accident," she said quickly, taking a step back. "I didn't—"
I didn't let her finish. My body moved before my mind caught up, my feet carrying me to the door. My heart was slamming against my ribs, my breath coming fast.
I yanked the door open so hard it banged against the wall. "MOM! DAD!" My voice tore through the house like a siren. "Elena just hit me!"
There was a pause, then the muffled scrape of chairs on the hardwood below. My dad's deep voice called out in confusion, followed by my mom's sharper, quicker tone.
I turned back toward Elena. She'd gone pale, her lips pressed into a hard line. For once, she had no snappy comeback, no perfectly timed jab.
And I realized something this moment was mine. She couldn't rewrite it. She couldn't twist it before the truth landed.
I stood there, chest heaving, the sting on my cheek throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
Tomorrow, I was leaving for good. And for the first time in years, I felt ready.