I stood in the hallway staring at my suitcase.
One bag.
One girl.
And an entire childhood I wasn't taking with me.
The CPS call came early that morning. My temporary placement was confirmed. Just until they "sorted things out," they said. A few weeks, maybe a month. Longer if needed.
They called it temporary.
But it felt like a goodbye.
My mom tried to help me pack.
She hovered, folding things too carefully, smoothing out creases that didn't matter. As if ironing my clothes could fix what had already been broken between us.
"Do you want to take your pillow?" she asked, holding it up like it was some treasured item.
I shook my head.
I didn't want anything from this house that held my nightmares in the walls.
What I wanted, no one could pack for me.
At 10:04 a.m., a dark blue car pulled into the driveway.
A CPS worker stepped out. Same woman from the interview—Ms. Clare. Hair in a neat bun, clipboard in hand, the kind of smile that tried too hard to be soft.
"You ready, Lina?" she asked gently.
No.
But I nodded anyway.
I turned to my mother.
She opened her arms, slowly.
I hesitated.
Then stepped into the hug.
It didn't fix anything.
But it mattered.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into my hair. "I should've protected you."
I didn't say it was okay.
Because it wasn't.
But I whispered, "I know."
And that was enough—for now.
I didn't cry as the car pulled away from the only house I'd ever lived in.
I watched the windows shrink in the rearview mirror.
The windows where I used to sit and wait for a father who never came home happy.
The windows that trapped screams behind locked doors.
And I whispered to the wind, "Goodbye."
Not just to the house.
But to the girl I was inside it.
The foster home wasn't what I expected.
No creaking floors. No cold, silent air. No forced smiles.
Instead, it smelled like cinnamon and soft soap.
Mrs. Langley, the woman who took me in, was in her fifties. Tall, gray-streaked hair, floral apron. Her eyes kind but not too curious.
She didn't try to hug me.
Didn't ask for my story.
Just showed me my room.
Simple. Clean. A bed, a desk, a small bookshelf.
"You can write here, if you like," she said, noticing the journal in my hands.
I nodded.
No words.
Not yet.
That night, I lay on the unfamiliar bed, staring at a ceiling that didn't know my name.
The silence was… different.
It wasn't threatening.
Just quiet.
Empty, not heavy.
I reached under my pillow and pulled out the key Aariz gave me.
Ran my fingers along its edges like it was a charm against the dark.
I missed him.
More than I wanted to admit.
The next morning, I woke to a message.
From Aariz.
"I heard you left."
"Are you safe?"
"Please just say yes."
I smiled, first time in twenty-four hours.
"Yes. Safe."
"Where?"
"Langley's. Cinnamon house. Weirdly cozy."
"Tell me when I can come."
"You're already here."
"What?"
"In my pocket. Your key."
"You're such a nerd."
"You like nerds."
"I like you."
I froze after sending that last one.
But I didn't unsend it.
Because it was true.
And maybe it was time I stopped hiding from things that felt good.
School felt different that day.
I walked through the halls like I wasn't invisible anymore.
Not loud. Not seen.
But known.
People whispered—of course they did. News spread fast.
But Maya was there.
And Aariz stood beside me like a wall, like a constant.
At lunch, the three of us sat together for the first time.
It felt strange.
But also… normal.
"I'm glad you finally let us in," Maya said, poking my arm with a french fry. "Even if it took a full-blown psychological horror film to get there."
"Thanks?" I laughed.
She grinned.
And just like that, the world didn't feel so cold.
After school, I didn't go to the foster home right away.
I had one more place to visit.
One more goodbye.
I walked slowly to my old street. The sky was soft with clouds, sun hiding like it, too, needed time to heal.
When I reached my house, I didn't go inside.
I just stood on the sidewalk, staring.
The curtains were drawn. No signs of movement.
My mother wasn't home.
And my father—
He was gone.
No one knew where. No one asked.
The CPS worker said he left the city after hearing about the investigation.
Coward.
But part of me was relieved.
He didn't deserve to be part of the ending.
Not after trying to destroy the beginning.
I took a deep breath and reached into my bag.
Pulled out a folded piece of paper.
One last note.
I walked to the mailbox and slipped it inside.
A message for my mother.
"I hope you learn to speak too."
"You don't have to live in fear anymore."
"I'm healing. You can too."
Then I turned around.
And never looked back.
Back at the foster home, Mrs. Langley handed me a warm cup of tea.
She didn't ask where I'd been.
She didn't need to.
Instead, she simply said, "You don't have to erase the past. Just don't let it write your future."
I nodded slowly.
Then, for the first time, I spoke without shaking.
"Thank you."
Later that night, I wrote in my journal.
"I'm not the girl who chose silence anymore."
"I'm the girl who fought to be heard."
"And this time, the world listened."