It's been a month.
Thirty days without my mother. Thirty nights of waking up gasping, my hands trembling as if they were soaked in blood, even when they weren't. The nightmares don't stop; they just keep twisting into new shapes—my mother falling, my father's faceless body, my brother's back disappearing into smoke. Every morning I wake up thinner, weaker, like the world is draining pieces of me day by day.
Food doesn't stay. I push it around my plate, tell Chloe I'll eat later, but later never comes. My body feels like a shadow—skin stretched too tight over bone, hair tangled, eyes always hollow. Every week I get sick. Doctor visits, blood tests, cold stethoscopes against my ribs… they all blur together. They say I need "rest." But how do you rest when the very air feels heavy, when sleep itself is a battlefield?
And today… today I'm supposed to go back to school.
The thought alone makes my chest tighten. One month since the funeral. One month of people whispering behind doors, pitying stares, condolences that sound like knives wrapped in sugar. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. But Chloe begged me—"Just one step back into the world, Emma. Just one step."
So here I am, clutching my backpack as if it's a shield, walking beside Chloe through the school gates. The building feels different, or maybe it's just me. Everyone's heads turn, their voices drop. I can almost feel their eyes crawling over my skin.
Some look at me with grief in their faces. Some look away, guilty, as if my presence makes them uncomfortable. And then there are others—those whose eyes sharpen like knives, whose whispers sting sharper than a slap.
I try to keep walking. I try to pretend I don't hear. But the words… they reach me anyway.
"Poor thing. Must be so hard…"
"… heard her mother couldn't take it anymore…"
And then—
"She's cursed. A black mark on her family."
I stop.
The words hang in the hallway like poison, like smoke filling my lungs. I don't turn my head, but I know it's a boy from the group near the lockers. His voice is too loud, too sharp, meant for me to hear.
"Her father died when she was born. Her brother ran away. And now her mother too. It's all because of her. She's… unlucky. Everything she touches breaks."
My knees weaken. The hallway tilts. Chloe's voice calls my name, but I can't breathe. I can't stay.
I run.
I push through the corridor, past the pitying faces, past the whispers, straight into the washroom. My palms slam against the cold sink, my breath shattering. The girl in the mirror doesn't look like me anymore. Pale, thin, sickly. Eyes rimmed red. Cheeks hollow. A ghost of the girl I used to be.
And the words replay over and over: black mark… curse… unlucky… it's all because of her.
My hands start shaking uncontrollably. I press them against the sink, grip the edges, but the tremor only grows. My chest tightens as if ropes are wrapping around my ribs, pulling tighter and tighter.
I want to scream, but no sound comes. I want to break the mirror, but my arms are too weak. I want to vanish, dissolve into the air, become nothing at all.
I don't know how long I stand there. Long enough for my heartbeat to slow into painful thuds. Long enough for my tears to dry into salt on my face.
When I finally walk out, the corridors are quieter. Most students are already in class. I drag my feet into my classroom, praying for invisibility.
Empty.
The room is deserted, sunlight spilling over empty desks. For a moment, I feel the smallest bit of relief—no eyes, no whispers, no one to breathe poison at me. I sink into a chair near the window, resting my head against my arms.
But silence can be cruel too.
Every shadow on the wall seems to twist into something alive. Every flicker of light reminds me of blood, of screams, of the way my mother's last breath felt in my bones. My head starts pounding. My fingers twitch. And then—I swear I hear a laugh. Low, cruel, echoing from nowhere.
I look around. Nothing. No one.
The air feels too heavy, pressing down on me. My pulse races. I whisper to myself, "It's not real. It's not real. It's just my head." But the feeling doesn't go.
The door creaks open.
My body tenses. For a heartbeat, I think it's Peter—because isn't it always Peter who finds me? Isn't he always the one to come when I'm breaking? But it isn't.
It's Edward.
He steps in slowly, hesitant, like he doesn't want to scare me. His tall figure blocks the light for a moment, and his voice is careful, almost gentle.
"Emma…?"
I blink. "Edward?" My voice comes out cracked, almost foreign.
He shifts awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "I… I saw you run off. And… I heard what they said. I'm sorry. People can be cruel."
For a moment, I don't know how to respond. I expect pity. I expect him to back away. But instead, Edward walks further in and sits down two desks away—not too close, not too far.
"I know it probably doesn't mean much," he continues quietly, "but… it's not your fault. None of it."
The words pierce something inside me. My throat tightens. "Then why does it feel like it is?"
Edward doesn't answer immediately. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick toward the window, thoughtful. "Because grief lies. Trauma lies. It makes you carry weights that were never yours."
I stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in.
For the first time in weeks, I feel seen. Not pitied. Not blamed. Just… seen.
I don't realize I'm crying until a tear hits the desk. Edward notices, but he doesn't reach out, doesn't make it a spectacle. He just stays there, quiet, solid, like an anchor in a storm.
And for the first time in a month, I let myself breathe.