Sarah didn't remember how she got home.
Her legs were numb. Her chest ached. Her soaked dress clung to her skin like shame. Her once-curled hair hung in wet strands, ruined and tangled. Her heels—muddy, scratched—had been kicked off somewhere down the road.
All she knew was that she was running.
Running from the stares. The laughter. The betrayal.
Running from Kim's face when he looked at her like that.
Like she was nothing.
The lights of her house glowed soft and golden in the distance, like a memory she was chasing.
She stumbled up the porch steps, hand trembling as she turned the knob.
Inside—warmth. Voices. Her parents.
Boxes were scattered around the living room. Taped. Half-packed. Her mother was kneeling beside a stack of photo albums. Her father was folding a chair. They were talking quietly—smiling, even—until they looked up and saw her.
Everything stopped.
"Sarah?" her mom said, standing slowly. "What… happened to you?"
Sarah didn't speak.
She didn't have to.
Her mother stepped forward, and Sarah broke.
She threw her arms around her mother's waist, burying her face in the fabric of her shirt, and sobbed. Loud, choking sobs that sounded like they had been trapped inside her since the day she was born.
Her mom held her. Her dad joined moments later, wrapping his arms around both of them, silent and worried. They didn't know what had happened. But they knew she was hurting.
And they held her anyway.
---
Later, when she had calmed a little, her mother brushed the wet hair from her face and gave a soft, nervous smile.
"Sweetheart… we were going to wait until morning to tell you. But I think maybe… now's a better time."
Sarah looked up, eyes still red and swollen.
"We're moving," her mom said gently. "To the countryside. Your dad got a transfer. It's a quieter place. A fresh start."
Sarah blinked.
"We already found a house," her dad added. "We're packing everything. We wanted it to be a surprise for you."
Her mom looked worried, as if expecting Sarah to scream or cry again. But Sarah just sat there, stunned. And then…
She smiled.
For the first time that night—a real smile.
A fragile, quiet smile that said more than words ever could.
"You mean… I won't have to see them again?" she whispered.
Her mom looked confused. "Them?"
Sarah shook her head, wiping her eyes.
"It doesn't matter."
She stood up slowly, still wrapped in her mother's cardigan, and looked around at the boxes.
"I'll help you pack."
---
She folded clothes, wrapped dishes in old newspaper, taped boxes shut. Every movement felt light, like something had been lifted from her chest.
The house grew quieter as the night deepened.
No more tears. No more noise.
Just the soft hum of change.
She was tired. But for the first time in a long time…
She felt almost safe.