I opened my mouth, hesitating as the heavy, bitter scent of spilled beer on our table curled into my nostrils, mingling with the tangy bite of anticipation. The words sat on my tongue like lead.
"I should probably tell you something," I said, forcing a small, awkward laugh. "I... I have a boyfriend."
Tristan blinked once. His face didn't fall exactly, but something in him stilled. Quieted.
"Oh," he said. He leaned back a little, his fingers absently toying with the edge of his ring. "That's... good to know."
"I didn't mean for this to be—whatever this is," I rushed on, heart fluttering unevenly.
"Your friends told me you were single." Tristan's words were steady, almost too calm.
There was a pause, a moment where it seemed like silence itself was holding its breath. I could feel the sharpness underneath, unspoken but lingering.
I flushed. "They said that?"
He nodded, his gaze flicking to mine again. "Well... technically, they said you were 'basically single.' I guess that's not the same thing."
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "They probably shouldn't have said anything at all."
Tristan tilted his head, studying me like I was a language he half-understood. "No offense, Winter, but... You don't exactly look like someone happily taken."
The words hit harder than I expected. My lips parted, but I couldn't find anything to say because he wasn't wrong.
"Winter!" The voice cut through the noise like a knife.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I froze, eyes widening in panic. Tristan's gaze snapped to where Eric stood—silent, watching us with a cold intensity that made the air between us crackle.
"Eric, hi," I whispered, my voice barely steady.
Tristan was mid-sentence, leaning forward just enough that the noise of the bar faded around us, when a shadow fell over the table.
"Who's this?" Eric's words slurred, his eyes darkening as he slid into the seat beside me. The sharp sting of alcohol clung to him, sinking into my skin as he yanked his arm around my shoulders—too tight, too fast.
"This is Tristan. He's a friend from college," I said, smiling like nothing had shifted, even though I caught the way Tristan's posture stiffened. His fingers drummed once against the table, then went still, his gaze locked on Eric.
"You trying to get with her?" Eric snarled, voice low and dangerous.
"No, we were just talking," I blurted out, ignoring the taut line of Tristan's shoulders, my heart pounding as I tried to smooth the edges between them—and inside myself.
Eric's fury exploded, fueled by suspicion and alcohol. Instantly, his hand clamped down on my arm with a vise-like grip, sharp pain slicing through me. Before I could react, his other hand swept a glass from the table, shattering it onto the floor like the silence between us. I gasped as he yanked me up from the booth, my mind reeling, heart pounding relentlessly in my chest.
"Eric," Blake snapped, appearing just in time to witness the chaos erupting around us.
Tristan was already on his feet, stepping between us. "Let her go."
"Fuck off. We're leaving—now," Eric's voice was low and dangerous as his grip tightened, crushing my skin.
I bit back a cry, my voice trembling. "I don't want to leave yet."
"I don't care what you want."
A tall, dark-haired man hurried over from Tristan's booth, urgency in his voice. "We should go, Tristan. Now."
Reluctantly, Tristan backed off, eyes locked on Eric's stern glare like he was calculating every possible outcome. Tension rippled through the space between them, thick as smoke.
I followed Tristan with my eyes as he crossed the club, slipping through the crowd like he belonged in it. He made his way to a booth near the back, movements smooth but sharp-edged. He didn't settle in. Didn't even lean back.
Eric tugged me down into the booth beside him, launching into conversation with Blake, who sat across from us.
But I wasn't listening.
My attention was elsewhere—completely consumed by Tristan.
He grabbed a pen off the table and dragged a napkin toward him, scribbling something down with quick, deliberate strokes. His head dipped low as he said something to the guy sitting across from him—quiet, clipped. I couldn't hear the words over the pulsing bass, but whatever he said, the guy just nodded, serious and silent.
And then, like he felt me watching him, Tristan glanced over his shoulder.
Just once.
The look he gave me wasn't intense—it was intentional. Grounding. Like he could see the storm brewing inside me and wasn't afraid to stay through it.
He folded the napkin in half and slipped it into the front pocket of his hoodie. Then, pushing up from the booth, he disappeared back into the crowd—but not before angling toward us. Toward me.
Tristan reached our booth and leaned down, his hand brushing mine. A subtle contact. Barely a whisper of skin.
But it was enough to make my heart skip a beat.
"It was nice seeing you," Tristan said quietly, releasing my hand but slipping a folded napkin into my palm.
Eric's scowl deepened as Tristan walked away, the dark-haired man following close behind.
Chloe and Lizzie returned, loaded with food and drinks. Their eyes immediately locked on me, suspicion radiating from them.
"We got you this," Lizzie said, setting a frosted violet glass in front of me with a heavy sigh.
I swallowed hard, grateful for the distraction, and took a deep gulp of the cool purple liquid, letting it steady my trembling hands.
Chloe glanced in my direction, her expression cool. A flicker of disappointment passes through her eyes—quiet, but unmistakable.
Eric's grip tightened on my arm.
"So," he said, voice forced and slurred. "How's everyone's night?"
Lizzie rolled her eyes.
"It's time for us to dance," she declares, too brightly.
Before Eric could react, she grabbed my hand and tugged me free from his grasp, her grip firm and deliberate.
Lizzie pulled me toward the dance floor with surprising strength, the pulse of the music wrapping around us like a living thing. Bodies writhe under strobes and red-tinted haze, and the crowd swallows us whole.
I glanced back—Eric's figure is still at the booth, jaw tight, eyes like knives. But Chloe slides in beside him, blocking his view, saying something with a smile that's all teeth and danger. She's buying me time.
"Forget him for five minutes," Lizzie shouted over the bass. "Just dance."
I tried. I let the music guide me, my arms lifting and hips swaying. The beat climbed like fire in my veins. It was messy and wild, but for the first time in days, I felt a momentary escape from my skin.
Then—the clink of glass from the bar rang in my ears, sharp and intrusive.
I wasn't on the dance floor anymore.
It was a few months ago. The first time Eric smashed something in front of me.
A snow globe.
A stupid souvenir from a childhood trip I barely remembered.
I had forgotten to call him back after dinner. I was brushing my teeth when the shatter echoed down the hallway—sharp, final. Then silence. That awful, heavy silence.
He was crying when I came out.
Apologizing.
His hands were bleeding, red glinting on shattered glass like rubies in snow.
I remember pressing a towel to his palms and whispering that it was okay, as if I understood. That I loved him. Trying to stop the blood. Trying to stop him from falling apart. The sound of the shattering glass seemed to echo endlessly in my mind, a constant reminder that it would never stop with just one broken thing.
I gasped, ripped back into the now, the throb of the music slamming into me like a wave. I blinked hard, sweat clinging to my skin, and Lizzie's hand was in mine again, grounding me.
"You okay?" Lizzie shouted.
I nodded, but the lie tastes sharp and metallic in my throat. The bass swells again, wrapping around us like smoke. For a second, I lose myself in the chaos—until I feel it.
Eyes.
Watching me.
I turned, heart skipping.
Eric.
He's leaning against a support beam just off the dance floor, arms crossed, drink in hand, jaw tight. His eyes—dark, glazed, unblinking—are locked on me like a threat wrapped in velvet. Like I've betrayed him just by swaying to the music.
My stomach dropped.
He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just watches. The lights flash red across his face, slicing his features into something wolfish. And then, slowly, he brings the drink to his lips, never breaking eye contact—his mouth curves—half smirk, half snarl.
Lizzie followed my gaze and tensed. "Shit. He's been drinking more, hasn't he?"
"Yeah," I whisper, barely audible over the music.
"He looks like he's about to explode."
I nodded, throat dry. He hasn't come over yet, but that's worse. The waiting. The tension. The storm you know is coming, but you can't outrun it because Eric doesn't forget. He doesn't cool down. He waits, lets it fester. Lets it grow teeth. And then he'll say something like, "You know I'm just protective, right? It's only because I care." Those words always echo in my mind, distorting reality and making the cycle feel normal.
And I know exactly what's coming the moment we're alone.
Suddenly, I'm freezing, even in the heat of the club. The flashback clings to me like fog, a memory of blood, broken glass, and apologies that always feel more like warnings.
Lizzie grabbed my arm. "Come on. We're going to the bathroom."
I let her pull me, my eyes still glued to Eric. He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. But I feel the threat in that silence, and I know—
Tonight's not over.
It's only just begun.
The hallway leading to the bathrooms was slightly quieter, the thudding bass fading just enough to hear your own thoughts—though mine were anything but steady.
Lizzie leaned against the chipped black-tile wall, arms crossed, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes.
"He's unhinged tonight," she muttered. "You need to leave. With us. Now."
I didn't answer. My body still buzzed from the dancing, but my mind was spiraling.
The bathroom door creaked open. Chloe stepped out.
Her eyes found mine instantly.
There was something different in them—less fire, more… calculation. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her expression unreadable.
"What did he say?" Lizzie asked before I could.
Chloe sighed, pulling us farther into the corner where the music dropped into muffled bass.
"He's pissed," she said finally. "But… weirdly calm now. That fake calm."
My chest tightened.
Chloe looked at me. "He said you were flirting with Tristan on purpose, that you wanted him to see. That you were trying to hurt him."
My mouth went dry. "That's not true—"
"I know it's not true," Chloe cut in sharply, voice low. "But Winter… he's rewriting everything. Making himself the victim. It's like he actually believes it."
Lizzie groaned and kicked the wall lightly. "Of course he does. He always does. That's how this works."
Chloe stepped closer. "And now he thinks Tristan's trying to steal you. He said, and I quote, 'If she wants to act like she's single, she's gonna find out what that feels like.'"
My stomach dropped.
She just looked at me—really looked at me—and said, "You're not safe tonight, Winter. You feel it. Don't pretend you don't."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The realization hit me with the force of a tidal wave, my heart flooding with resolve even as Eric's words—the ones that had once kept me tethered to fear—rang in my head. That look in his eyes. If she wants to act like she's single... But deep down, I knew that I didn't owe safety to anyone who threatened it. Eric's coercion was not my guilt to carry.
Lizzie's voice was sharp. "We're leaving. now."
"I can't," I whispered, voice breaking. "If I do, he'll come to my place. He'll blow up my phone. He'll scare my sister again. I can't—"
"Then come to mine," Chloe said, her voice firm but urgent. "Seriously. We'll hide your phone if necessary. But you are not going back to him tonight."
"Wait," I said suddenly, voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Just… can I ask you guys something?"
They both paused, surprised. Lizzie nodded.
I hesitated. "Did you tell Tristan I was single?"
Chloe blinked. "We said you were basically single."
Lizzie added. "Which… you are."
Chloe frowned gently. "You're not mad, are you?"
"No," I said honestly. "I'm not. I just… wasn't expecting it. He remembered it, by the way. The 'basically.'"
Lizzie smirked. "Of course he did."
Chloe stepped closer, her voice soft now. "We just wanted him to know he had a chance. Not because he's hot—though, obviously—but because he's kind. And you... You light up when he's around, Win. Even if you've only seen him at college, when he looks at you, I haven't seen you shine like that in years. We've missed that."
I looked away, blinking hard.
"I'm sorry," Chloe added gently. "If it crossed a line."
"It didn't," My voice came out small, but sure. "I just... needed to hear you say it."
They both nodded. Chloe reached out and touched my arm.
"You're not alone in this. Not with him, not with Eric. Not in any of it."
I swallowed hard and nodded back. "I know."
Even if I didn't always believe it.
I hesitated, a storm of uncertainty raging inside me. A question surfaced, clear and undeniable: Do I choose fear or freedom?
"I have to face him, tell him it's over. I can't leave things like this."
"You don't owe me what?" His voice slithered in behind us, sharp and low.
I froze. Chloe did too.
Eric stepped out of the shadows near the hallway wall, where the bathroom neon flickered weakly above his head like a bad omen. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tight. He looked between us with that cold, unreadable stare I'd come to dread.
Chloe stepped in front of me immediately, like a shield. "This is a private conversation."
Eric smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure it is. Talking shit about me again, huh?"
"Back off," she warned.
"I wasn't talking shit," I said quickly, too quickly, stepping forward. "Eric, I just need to talk to you. Alone."
His eyes burned into mine, jaw tight. "Alright. We're going to my apartment. Now."
He didn't wait for a response—his hand clamped around my arm like a vice.
"Eric—" Chloe snapped, stepping forward.
But he yanked me with him before she could finish. My feet stumbled to keep up as he pulled me away from the bathroom hallway and into the strobe-lit chaos of the club. His grip tightened with every step. It didn't hurt yet, but it would if I didn't keep pace.
"Winter!" Lizzie's voice rang out behind us. "Winter, don't go!"
Chloe's voice chased after hers—urgent, panicked. "You don't have to do this!"
But I was already being dragged into the dark, out of their reach. I turned once, catching their faces—shocked, helpless—as the crowd swallowed us whole.
Blake appeared behind us, tense and silent, following like he always did. A shadow to Eric's fury. His jaw clenched, but he didn't say a word. Maybe he didn't dare. Maybe he agreed.
I didn't say anything either.
Not yet.
But the pressure building in my chest told me I would. Soon. Even if it shattered everything.
We reached Blake's car—its sleek black frame gleaming under the parking lot lights like an oil slick. The music from Shattered still thumps in the distance, but out here, it feels like another world. Quieter. More dangerous.
Eric pushed me back against the car before I could say a word.
"Hey—" I started, breath catching.
His hands land on either side of me, caging me in. The cold metal presses against my back. He leans in too close.
"We just need to chill, okay?" he said, voice syrupy-smooth, forced. "Everything is fine."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It's the kind of smile you give a cop when you're hiding something in the trunk.
I flinched slightly as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear—like it's a gentle gesture, like it means something good. But his fingers linger too long. I feel the pressure behind the touch—a warning.
Blake stands a few feet away, keys in hand, frozen. He watched us but said nothing. He's always watching. Always quiet. And that silence—it's starting to feel like complicity.
"I just didn't like seeing you with that guy," Eric continued, still smiling, like he's explaining something reasonable. "You know how I get. You know I only act like that when you do stuff that makes me nervous."
Inside, I knew his logic was twisted, a trap of his own making. It always felt like if I stayed quiet, he believed I confessed everything he accused me of.
"I didn't do anything," I whispered.
His face hardened. "You were flirting. Don't lie."
My mouth went dry. I shook my head. "I wasn't."
His jaw twitched, but the smile snapped back into place. "Then prove it. Come home with me."
A lump forms in my throat.
I glanced at Blake. He looks away.
The car door clicks open.
The car door swings open, and Blake slides into the driver's seat without a word. Eric tugs open the back door and gestures for me to get in.
"Come on, babe," he said, that fake smile still plastered on his face like a mask starting to crack. "Let's just get out of here."
I hesitated for half a second too long, and his hand finds my lower back—gentle, but guiding. Not a choice. A command wrapped in affection.
I slid into the backseat.
Eric gets in beside me, his thigh pressing against mine like an anchor. The door slams shut. I hear the locks click down, and it makes me jump.
Blake starts the engine. He doesn't say a word.
The ride is silent at first. The club's pulse fades into the distance behind us, swallowed by the dark streets. My phone buzzes in my purse—once, then again—but I don't reach for it. I already know who it is.
Chloe. Lizzie. They saw everything.
Eric drapes an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. His breath is warm and sharp with alcohol as he leans in close.
"See?" he murmurs. "We're fine. You just overreacted. You always do that."
I stare out the window, the city lights blurring past. My stomach knots tighter with every turn Blake takes, with every word Eric whispers like a spell he thinks will fix everything.
"I don't like it when you make me look crazy in front of people," he says softly. "Especially guys like that. You know how that makes me feel."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"You never are. That's the problem."
My throat tightens. I swallow hard, willing the tears to stay where they are. My voice barely makes it past my lips.
"I just wanted to have fun tonight. I want to go home, my home."
He exhales, annoyed. "You always want something. Just be grateful I'm still here after everything."
Still here. Like he's the one enduring me.
Blake's eyes flick up to the rearview mirror for a second, meeting mine. There's something there—pity, maybe. Regret. But he says nothing.
The silence in the car becomes suffocating.
And still, the locks stay down.
The ride goes fast—too fast. My thoughts blur with the passing streetlights, and before I know it, Blake's pulling up in front of my house.
The car idles. No one speaks.
Then Eric snaps.
"I said we're going to my apartment," he growled, leaning forward between the seats. His voice is low, sharp. Dangerous.
Blake doesn't turn around. His hands stay firm on the wheel. "Look, man, she said she wants to go home."
Eric's hand tightened around my wrist like a reflex. "She's just upset. She doesn't mean that."
I wrenched my hand free, heart hammering in my chest. For a moment, I stare at him—at the guy who once made my world feel smaller and called it love. The guy who taught me to flinch when I heard my name.
Lizzie's words kept echoing through my head, sharp and cold, "My cousin was killed by her boyfriend. It started just like that."
My throat tightened, but I didn't let it stop me. Not this time.
Because I've swallowed these words for too long. Choked them down every time he made me feel guilty for breathing. For laughing. For wanting something else. Something better.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I feel the echo of Tristan's hand in mine. The steadiness. The quiet safety.
And I realized—I'm done being afraid of my own voice.
I lifted my chin.
I do mean it," I said, and this time, I believe it. I reached into my purse and pulled out Eric's apartment key, the metal cold and familiar in my hand, then dropped it onto the seat with a finality that echoed my words.
"We're done, Eric."
The words land like a door slamming shut.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't want to open it again.
Eric's jaw flexed, his eyes wild for a moment. Then he forces a breath through his nose, pulling back with a sneer.
"Whatever. Run to your fucking friends. See how far that gets you."
Blake unlocked the doors with a firm click.
I opened mine and stepped out into the quiet night. The air is cooler here—less suffocating. My legs feel unsteady, like I've just stepped off a spinning ride. As I closed the car door behind me, the sharp slam echoed louder than it should have in the stillness. I start toward the entrance of my house, boots hitting pavement in rhythm with my heartbeat—fast, uneven, but determined.
But then I heard it.
The creak of another door.
Eric.
I turned, pulse spiking, just as he stepped out, his shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes burning holes into me. He moved like he might come after me—slow at first, then with intent.
"Winter!" he barked, voice low but rough. "We're not done."
I froze.
Eric's foot dragged against the curb as he lurched forward again, but before he could get any closer, Blake stepped between us.
"Back off," Blake said, voice low and sharp, like a blade unsheathed.
Eric froze, swaying slightly. His fists clenched at his sides.
"She doesn't need you playing bodyguard," he spat, the words slurring just enough to expose how far gone he was.
Blake didn't flinch. "You're drunk, man. Let's get you home before you embarrass yourself more."
Eric's eyes flicked to me, rage simmering beneath the surface, but Blake didn't move, didn't give him a single inch. The tension crackled in the air like a downed power line.
I didn't wait.
I turned, heart pounding but steps steady, and made my way up the walkway to the front door. The porch light cast a soft golden glow, a warmth I hadn't realized I missed until now. I fumbled with my keys for a heartbeat before the lock clicked open.
As I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, I exhaled a breath I hadn't known I was holding.
I bolted upstairs—faster than I even knew I could move—my vision blurred with tears.
I barely got the door closed behind me before the sob ripped free. My legs gave out. I slid down to the floor, back against the wall, my whole body shaking.
It was like everything hit at once.
The fear. The shame. The ache in my arm where he grabbed me. The sound of Chloe's voice begging me not to go.
I buried my face in my hands and cried harder than I had in years. Guttural, raw sobs scraped my throat. I didn't recognize the sounds coming from me.
All this time, I kept thinking I could fix it, that he'd change. That if I just tried harder—if I didn't make him mad—he'd go back to who he was in the beginning.
But that version of Eric didn't exist anymore.
Maybe he never had.
The tears kept coming, spilling down my cheeks and soaking into the sleeves of my shirt. My whole body hurt—my heart the most.
And for the first time… I let myself feel it.
All of it.
Because I knew now—this wasn't love.
This was survival.
And I was done pretending I didn't know the difference.
I sat at my desk, utterly in shock. My arm still throbbed where Eric had grabbed it—his fingerprints felt like they were still burned into my skin.
The room was quiet, too quiet. Like the silence after a storm, when the damage is finally clear.
I picked up my phone with shaking fingers and opened Chloe's chat.
My thumb hovered for a moment, like even this small act could unravel everything.
Then I typed:
Delete Eric from the chat. I'm done.
My finger hit send.
It was small—just a message—but it felt like a scream.
I reach into my purse with shaking fingers and pull out the napkin. It's crumpled from the night, smudged slightly with eyeliner and regret—but Tristan's handwriting is still clear. Sharp, certain. As I trace the ink lightly, it feels warm, a tactile promise lingering beneath my thumb. It's the smell of dark ink bleeding onto white paper in the midst of chaos, a fragile moment of calm. If you ever need me. His number is scrawled beneath the words like a lifeline.
I stare at it for a long moment, my thumb brushing over the edge.
My phone vibrated where it had slipped from my trembling fingers, lighting up with Chloe's name.
He's gone. 😌 Deleted. Blocked. The group chat is officially douchebag-free!
Another message popped up instantly, this one from Lizzie:
✨ Liberation vibes ✨
Then Chloe again:
Let the healing begin!
A photo came through next. It was a screenshot of the group chat without Eric's name: just Chloe, Lizzie, the new girls, and me. My name is right there at the top, no longer shadowed by his.
A strange mix of emotions rushed over me—relief, sadness, a flicker of hope. A whole year of my life. Gone and swallowed by someone who only ever wanted to control me.
My thumb hovered over the screen as another message came through—this time a private one from Chloe.
Hey. For real...are you okay? I know you're hurting. But please remember, this isn't your fault. He doesn't deserve you. He never did.
Tears welled up again, but they were different this time. Softer. Not from fear, but from the kind of love that doesn't demand or punish. The kind that reminds you you're not alone.
I typed back slowly.
I'm not okay yet… but I think I will be.
Almost immediately:
You will be. And we're going to be with you every step.
The group chat quieted down soon after. Everyone started saying good night—it was getting close to midnight.
Lizzie: Love you, witches. Sleep tight and dream of hot boys. 😘🖤
Chloe: I'd better not wake up to you texting Eric again, or I'm changing your number myself.
Me: Promise. No ghosts from the past tonight.
They sent a flurry of heart emojis and kissy faces, and just like that, the chat went still. But not empty. Not like before.
I glanced at the napkin again, now smooth and open on my desk.
Tristan's number.
"If you ever need me."
My fingers brushed the screen.
Did I?
I clutched the phone to my chest for a second, breathing in that flicker of light they'd just given me.
Eric may have taken a year from me. But tonight—I started taking it back.
I opened a new message and slowly typed in the number. My heart's pounding again, but for once, not from fear.
Hi. It's Winter. I just wanted to say thank you. For earlier. For the napkin. For noticing.
I stare at the screen for a few seconds, hovering over "Send." Then I close my eyes and press it.
The message whooshes off into the unknown, and suddenly everything feels still.
I don't know what Tristan will say. Or if he'll say anything at all.
But I know I'm not going back.
And that, for now, is enough.
My phone buzzed a few seconds after I hit send.
Tristan: Winter. I was hoping you'd text.
Another vibration.
Tristan: Are you okay? Do you need anything? I mean that—anything.
I stared at the screen, heart racing. The words felt like a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Before I could respond, another message popped up.
Tristan: You don't have to talk if you're not ready. Just say the word, and I'll be there.
I swallowed hard. My throat burned, but not from fear this time. It was something else—something lighter. Something that felt like the first drop of rain after a long, dry season.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then I typed:
I'm okay. I think. I just… I didn't know who else would understand.
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
Tristan: I do. More than you know.
Tristan: And you're not alone, Winter. Not anymore.
I sat there in silence, staring at the message, my phone clutched tight in my hand. My heart still hurts. My body still ached. But for the first time in what felt like forever, the fear wasn't winning.
I wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
Me: Thank you...
The room was dark, but I didn't feel swallowed by it. Not tonight. Not with his words still echoing in my head: You're not alone, Winter. Not anymore.
I whispered them aloud, to hear them in my own voice. To believe them a little more.
Not anymore.
I set the phone on the pillow beside me like it was some anchor—some fragile proof that connection was still possible, even after everything.
As I closed my eyes, the silence that filled the room wasn't terrifying for once. It felt as if the weight of the words that had been stuck on my tongue had finally been lifted, freeing me. The silence now seemed to echo with a comforting resonance, a reminder of the words I was never brave enough to say until now. It was peaceful.