I didn't go home right after school.
I couldn't.
The weight of what I'd done—the confession, the message, the choice to finally fight back—still felt too fresh. Like an open wound I was afraid to touch.
So instead, I walked.
Past the bakery that always smelled like burnt sugar. Past the broken mailbox no one ever fixed. Past memories clinging to the sidewalk like forgotten cigarette smoke.
I walked until the sun started bleeding across the sky.
Only then did I turn back.
Only then did I remember that no matter how far I wandered, I still had to return to the same house, the same walls, the same locked door.
When I got home, the first thing I noticed was that the lights were off.
It was only 6:30.
My mother's shoes were by the door.
But the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
I hesitated before stepping inside.
Every instinct screamed for me to turn and run. But I didn't.
I walked in.
Closed the door behind me.
Set my bag down gently.
Then I heard it—a creak.
Just one. Faint. But enough.
It came from the kitchen.
I turned slowly, my breath caught in my throat.
And there he was.
My father.
Sitting at the table like he belonged there. Like he hadn't been absent for weeks. Like he hadn't tried to break me with his hands and his threats and his twisted smile.
"Evening, sweetheart," he said casually, like this was normal.
I stood frozen.
He smirked.
"Not even a hello?"
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice too steady for how badly my knees shook.
"Just visiting. Your mom called. Said you've been acting… off." He leaned back in the chair. "I figured I'd check in."
Check in?
Was that what this was?
Or was he here to remind me I was still his prisoner?
My eyes flicked to the hallway. To my room. To the desk I always used to block the door.
"I'm tired," I said. "I need to study."
He stood up slowly, and every inch of me tensed.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"You've been talking to people, haven't you?"
I didn't answer.
Because silence—when used right—can be sharper than any scream.
That night, I didn't sleep.
I sat with my back against the wall, knees to my chest, phone in hand, flashlight off.
I'd pushed the desk against the door. Again.
But even that didn't feel like enough.
Because when someone has already broken the boundary of safety once, no lock, no wood, no silence is ever strong enough again.
At 2:16 AM, my phone buzzed.
I flinched.
But it wasn't the unknown number.
It was Aariz.
"You awake?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
"Something feels wrong."
I stared at the screen.
How did he always know?
*"He was here," I typed. "My father."
He replied instantly.
"Did he hurt you?"
"No. Not this time."
"Lina… can you come outside?"
I blinked.
"Now?"
"I'm in front of your house."
I didn't think.
I just moved.
I slipped on a hoodie, climbed quietly out of bed, and tiptoed to the front door.
The house was still. My mother's room was dark. My father, I assumed, was asleep in the guest room.
If I made one wrong sound…
But I didn't.
I opened the door without a creak and stepped into the cool night air.
And there he was.
Aariz.
Leaning against his bike, hood up, hands in pockets.
He didn't smile.
But his eyes softened when he saw me.
"You really came," he said quietly.
"You really waited."
He handed me a helmet.
"Let's go."
I didn't ask where.
I just got on the bike and held on.
We ended up at the old pier.
The one that hadn't been maintained in years. Where the boards creaked under our steps and the sea whispered beneath us like it knew all our secrets.
We sat on the edge, feet dangling over the water.
It was silent for a while.
Then Aariz spoke.
"I saw him once," he said.
I looked at him. "Who?"
"Your father. At the grocery store. A year ago. He was yelling at someone—your mom, I think. His voice was calm, but his eyes… weren't. I never forgot that look."
I didn't say anything.
Because I knew that look too well.
"He scared me," Aariz added. "And I didn't even know him."
I stared at the dark water. "He scares me too. Still."
"You told the counselor, didn't you?"
I nodded.
He exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath for hours.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
That made me freeze.
Because no one had ever said that to me before.
Not once.
Not even when I got good grades. Not when I cooked dinner alone at thirteen. Not when I learned how to stop crying without biting my lip.
No one had ever said they were proud.
Until now.
And suddenly, I couldn't hold it in anymore.
The tears came, quiet and raw. I turned my face away, ashamed.
But Aariz didn't mock me. He didn't say don't cry or you'll be okay or be strong.
He just sat there, letting me break.
When I finally looked up, he offered me his sleeve.
I laughed weakly. "Gross."
"Better than nothing."
I wiped my eyes.
Then whispered, "What if he comes back?"
Aariz didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Then I'll be there."
By the time we returned, the sun was starting to rise.
Aariz stopped the bike a few houses down.
I got off, pulled off the helmet, and looked at him.
"Thank you," I said.
"For the ride?" he teased.
"For everything."
He nodded once, then reached into his pocket and handed me something.
A small metal key.
"What's this?"
He looked serious.
"It's for my place. In case you ever need to run."
I stared at it.
And maybe that was the first time I realized—really realized—what it meant to have someone.
Someone who saw you.
Someone who listened when the world tried to silence you.
Someone who handed you a key instead of questions.
I slipped the key into my pocket.
Tightly.
Like it was armor.
And walked back into the house.
Not scared.
Not broken.
But braver than I'd ever been.