The ringtone slices through the quiet like a knife.
MOM.
It flashes across my screen, glowing like a warning. I don't want to pick up. Every cell in my body says don't.
But I do.
Because part of me still hopes that maybe—just maybe—this time, she'll speak to me gently.
"Hello?" I answer, voice small, already bracing.
"Where are you?" she spits, not even pretending to greet me.
I stay still on Aurora's couch. My heart sinks before I even answer. "At Aurora's."
"You don't even think to inform me? You just vanish, Rue? What if something happened? What if I needed you?"
I press my fingers into my thigh to keep steady. "You didn't call. You never ask."
"You're always disappearing!" she snaps. "You just leave, like no one else matters. You are so selfish, Rue. So—so evil. Honestly, you don't care about anyone but yourself."
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice calm. "I needed space."
"Of course you did. You always need something. You've become impossible. I don't even know who you are anymore."
I let the silence stretch.
Because I don't know either.
Because I don't want to argue, but I don't want to agree.
Because I'm so tired of being the villain in her story when I'm just trying to be a person in mine.
And maybe she hears that in my silence. Or maybe she just doesn't care.
"Get home," she mutters. "Now."
Click.
The call ends.
I don't say goodbye.
I place the phone face down on the couch. Aurora's looking at me with worried eyes, her lips slightly parted like she doesn't know whether to ask or just hug me again.
"She okay?" she asks gently.
"No," I whisper. "But I'll go anyway."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
I shake my head. "No. I just need to get through it."
She stands, pulls me into a tight hug again. "Come back whenever. You know this is your safe place, right?"
"I know," I whisper. "Thank you."
The ride home is a blur. The night outside is soft and strange, like the city is breathing too quietly. I feel small in it. Small and strangely hollow.
I walk through the gate and unlock the door quietly. The house is still. Lights off, shadows draped across the floor like secrets.
It's 11:11 PM when I check my phone again.
I don't want to think too much about the hour. I don't want to think too much about anything.
I don't want to seem desperate. Or needy. Or like I'm waiting.
Even though I am.
Even though my heart feels like it's been held in someone else's hand all day, and I'm just now realizing it's mine again.
I type quickly.
"Goodnight."
Just that.
No "I miss you."
No "Are you okay?"
No begging.
And a lot of overthinking.
Just a small word, sent across a quiet distance.
I place the phone down, face down again. Like that'll protect me from disappointment.
I crawl under the blanket, still in the clothes I wore all day, still wrapped in everyone else's words.
My mom's voice.
The silence from Nigel.
Even Aurora's kindness, echoing like warmth I don't know how to hold onto.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling.
Still no reply.
Not that I expected one.
Not really.
But hoping hurts. Even when you say you're done with it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Breathe in.
Out.
But my chest feels tight. Too tight.
The air doesn't fill my lungs right. Something presses down from the inside.
My hands tremble a little.
I sit up.
Then lie down again.
I pull the blanket up to my chin. Then push it down.
And that's when it starts.
The pressure.
Not loud. Not sudden.
Just rising.
Like the grief is building a home inside me and finally demanding rent.
My fingers dig into the bedsheet. I try to breathe deep, but it doesn't work. My chest shakes. My stomach twists.
I want to cry.
But no tears come.
Just this awful, frozen feeling. This panic with no sound.
My body feels like it's vibrating. My heart is racing, not like a drumbeat but like a warning bell. And I can't stop it.
I curl up on my side, gripping my wrist like an anchor.
It's not the worst panic attack I've ever had.
But it's the kind that doesn't even let you scream. The kind that just… sinks you.
The kind where all you can do is endure.
I lie there like that for what feels like hours. Just trying to remember how to be inside my own body again.
There's no text.
No knock on my door.
No apology.
No warmth.
Just the ceiling. Just the dark. Just me.
I breathe slowly, again and again, until the shaking fades enough for me to go still.
I don't know what time it is anymore.
I don't even care.
Tonight, I just exist.
And I guess—for now—that has to be enough.