The weight of the world pressed down on me. I needed a moment—just one breath to keep from drowning. My hands still trembled, the journal's crooked, damning letters etched into my mind. The silence in the room grew unbearable.
I turned to the bathroom.
The cool tiles met my bare feet, a small relief. I locked the door behind me. A dim bulb above the mirror cast a pale glow across the room. For a long second, I stared at my reflection—haunted, hollow-eyed, unrecognizable. My gaze felt too wide, too raw, storm-tossed from within.
Warm water spilled over me, but it did nothing to wash away the weight. I scrubbed harder, chasing a sense of relief that never came. The bruises itched beneath my skin, an ache rooted in memory. My fingers traced over the tender places, trembling.
Then, it surfaced.
That day—the last time he came to our place.
The air had felt heavy, choked with anger. My mother, always our anchor, shook as she tried to hold herself together. I was just a child, watching from the corner, too young to grasp the words, but old enough to feel the fracture.
His voice cut through the room like a blade:
"I'll never come back here again. You won't see me again. And I'll make sure you never see me again."
I didn't understand the full meaning then. But the way the room froze told me everything I needed to know. It wasn't a threat. It was a vow.
I watched them from the shadows, barely hidden. My mother's eyes met mine for a heartbeat—frantic, pleading, tired. I saw it all in her stare: terror, hopelessness, and something already breaking.
He vanished after that. I never saw him again.
Maybe that's why I don't have many memories of him. He took them with him when he left.
The water stopped, but the tightness in my chest held firm. Steam curled around me as I stood still, surrounded by silence. The mirror had fogged over, yet the reflection that stared back still felt wrong—like someone I barely recognized.
I wrapped myself in a towel, the motion automatic. Everything still clung to me—grief, fear, confusion. Breathing felt like labor. Remembering who I was felt harder.
At the closet, I slipped on the soft pajama set from earlier. Familiarity was all I could afford. Strength felt like a costume I hadn't earned.
Cool air brushed my skin, a creeping chill that reached my bones. I didn't fight it. I wasn't ready to face the world, but I couldn't hide behind the bathroom door forever.
The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and long. The only light behind me was the one from the bathroom, casting a pale glow across my face when I glanced at the mirror one last time. I looked… exhausted. Like someone who had carried too much for too long.
Voices murmured faintly on the other side of the door. Jason. Denise. Eli. They were still there, giving me space. But dusk had fallen, shadows stretching across the room like fingers. The quiet around me made their voices feel far away, as if separated by more than a wall.
I stepped into the dim light of the living room.
It wasn't just the lighting that made the space feel heavy—it was the unspoken tension. Jason's gaze found mine first, soft and searching. Denise stood back, her expression unreadable, but alert. Eli straightened from the armchair, his usual ease replaced by quiet concern.
The silence lingered.
"Sorry," I murmured, my voice scratchy. "I just... needed a moment."
Jason rose to his feet, his voice gentle. "Are you alright?"
I nodded, unsure whether I believed it. "Yeah. I think so."
Denise stepped forward. Her voice, calm but sure, cut through the fog. "You don't have to face this alone, Janica."
I bit my lip, holding back the tide. "I know," I whispered, though the edge I stood on still felt unsteady.
Jason's voice came again, firmer now. "We'll help you find the answers. Whatever it takes."
Eli gave a quiet nod. "We've got you. All the way."
I couldn't find words. The weight of their presence settled around me like a blanket—warm, anchoring. I let it hold me for a moment.
Then Jason's eyes darkened, something stirring beneath the concern. Guilt. Urgency.
"Janica," he said, stepping closer. "We need to talk. It's not what you think. The journal—what it says—it distracted us. But there's more to this. So much more."