I needed air.
Not outside.
Not in the courtyard.
Just space.
Silence.
Four walls that didn't remember me.
I slipped into the women's restroom at the end of the hall.
Locked myself in a stall.
Pressed my back against the cool metal.
Closed my eyes.
Breathed.
In.
Out.
Again.
Mrs. Vale's face still flickered behind my eyelids.
The sound of her heels.
The coldness in her voice.
The way she looked at me — like I was something stuck to her shoe.
I remembered the burn.
The oil.
The way I'd cried in the bathroom that night, wrapping my hand in gauze, too afraid to go to the hospital.
"They'll ask questions," Julian had said. "Just let it heal."
Like I was supposed to heal everything.
A knock on the stall door.
I froze.
"Evelyn?"
Serena's voice.
Sweet.
Light.
Like she hadn't just watched me panic from across the courtyard.
"You in there?"
I didn't answer.
But then I heard the sink turn on.
The splash of water.
The soft hum of that same jazz song Mom used to play.
She wasn't leaving.
So I flushed the toilet — unnecessary, just for show — and stepped out.
She stood at the mirror, drying her hands on a paper towel, smiling like we were two girls sharing secrets.
"Hey," she said. "You okay? You looked… off after lunch."
Her eyes were wide.
Concerned.
Perfect.
I walked to the sink.
Turned on the water.
Let it run over my fingers — cold, sharp, grounding.
"I'm fine," I said.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just… there.
She tilted her head. "You sure? You've been… distant lately."
There it was.
Not a question.
Not kindness.
A dig.
Wrapped in silk.
"Distant," I repeated, drying my hands.
"I don't know," she said, tossing the paper towel into the bin. "It's just… you used to help me with things. Little things. And now… I feel like I'm bothering you."
Little things.
Bothering you.
She didn't say "You didn't get my food."
She didn't accuse.
She implied.
Like she was the victim.
Like I was the one who'd changed.
Like I owed her.
And in the old life?
I would've apologized.
Said, "I'm sorry, I've been stressed."
Offered to get her coffee later.
Smiled through the lie.
But now?
Now I just looked at her.
In the mirror.
Our eyes met.
Hers, wide, innocent, calculating.
Mine, calm.
Still.
Unmoved.
"I've been busy," I said.
Not defensive.
Not apologetic.
Just stating a fact.
She blinked. "Oh. Yeah. Orientation. Parsons. It's a lot."
"It is," I agreed.
I reached for my bag.
Pulled out a small tube of lip balm.
Applied it slowly.
Like I had all the time in the world.
She waited.
For more.
For guilt.
For submission.
But I didn't give it.
"Anyway," she said, forcing a smile, "just wanted to check on you. You're like a sister to me, Ev. I worry."
Sister.
The word tasted like poison.
The sister who stole your fiancé.
Who laughed while you died.
Who wore your pain like a victory.
I turned to her.
Smiled.
Soft.
Polite.
The kind of smile rich girls wear at funerals.
"I appreciate that," I said. "Really."
And then, before she could say another word, I added:
"I'll do better."
Not "I'm sorry."
Not "You're right."
Just: I'll do better.
A promise.
A performance.
A lie.
Because I wasn't going to do better.
I was going to do different.
And she believed me.
She relaxed.
Her shoulders dropped.
Her smile became real — not from warmth, but from victory.
She thought she'd won.
That I was still the same girl.
The one who bent.
The one who served.
The one who disappeared.
"You should," she said, brushing a piece of lint off her sleeve. "We're in this together, remember?"
"Of course," I said. "I haven't forgotten."
And I hadn't.
I remembered everything.
The oil.
The slaps.
The hospital bed.
The divorce.
The betrayal.
And I remembered my plan.
Not revenge.
Not exposure.
Not drama.
Patience.
Because Serena and Julian?
They weren't just part of my past.
They were part of my plan.
And I wouldn't ruin it with a single outburst.
I wouldn't break character for a moment of satisfaction.
I wouldn't give them the power to say, "She changed. She's unstable."
No.
I would smile.
I would nod.
I would say, "I'll do better."
And while they believed I was broken,
while they thought I was still theirs to control,
I would rewrite everything.
She left first.
Waved at me in the mirror.
"See you later, Ev!"
I waited.
Counted to ten.
Then looked at my reflection.
No fear.
No anger.
No tears.
Just a woman who had seen hell.
And decided to walk back through it —
on her own terms.
I turned off the light.
Stepped into the hallway.
And walked —
not faster.
not slower.
but free.