Zara POV
“Zara… Zara… Zaraa…”
The sound of my name drags me out of the darkness, and with it comes that familiar ache — the kind that makes me hate myself even more. Why do I keep putting the people I love through this… through me? Sometimes I wish I could just disappear quietly and put an end to this nightmare, but even that kind of peace feels too far out of reach.
My eyelids flutter open, heavy and sore. The room smells faintly of antiseptic. And the first thing I see is my mom, curled awkwardly in a hospital chair, her head resting against the wall as she sleeps.
Because of me.
Getting up slowly, I took my blanket and draped it over her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” I whispered — so soft I wasn’t even sure if I heard it myself. I hate that I’m the reason she’s here, sleeping in a hospital chair again. I’ve tried different forms of therapy, different ways to fix myself, but there’s only so much anyone can do.
I slipped toward the bathroom to wash my face, hoping the nightmare would fade with the cold water.
“ZARA!” My mom’s voice cracked through the silence, frantic and terrified.
I rushed back instantly. “I’m here,” I said, stepping into her line of sight.
She pulled me into her arms the second she saw me, hugging me like I might disappear if she let go.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured again against her shoulder.
“Don’t be, my darling girl,” she whispered, her hand smoothing down my back. “Take your time to heal. I’ll always be here for you.” My mom reassured me. I silently promised myself I’d try harder to get better… or at least try to pretend, if pretending was all I could offer. If it meant keeping her happy, easing even a little of the worry in her eyes, then I’d do it.
•••
It’s been almost three years since the incident.
Do I feel better now?
Amen to that… but the truth is, healing isn’t a straight line. Some days I feel lighter, and other days it feels like I’m right back where I started.
All I know is that I’m tired of this place — not just the house, not just the city… the entire country. Everywhere I look holds a memory I’d rather forget. I want out. I want a fresh start, somewhere no one knows my name or my story.
My mom isn’t happy about the decision, and I can see it in her forced smile, the way her hands linger on my shoulders like she’s scared to let go. But she understands. She always does.
A new chapter. A new life. A new school. Maybe this time it’ll hurt a little less.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of packing, goodbyes, and endless lists of things to do. Each night, I lay awake thinking about the life I was leaving behind — the streets, the neighbors, even the familiar hum of the city. It was all familiar, yet suffocating. I kept my eyes on the horizon, imagining the moment I’d step off the plane, start fresh somewhere no one knew me.
But before that fresh start could begin, there was one goodbye I hadn’t prepared for. My mom took me to my dad’s grave first, and I followed silently, dragging my feet over the gravel. The headstone loomed ahead, cold and unyielding, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to look.
She sank onto the bench beside the grave, tears slipping freely down her face. Softly, almost as if she didn’t want the world to hear, she told him about me — about the small steps I’d been taking, about the ways I’d been trying to heal.
I stayed back, silent, staring at the stone. My chest felt heavy, every word she spoke pressing down like a weight I couldn’t lift. I wanted to cry, to scream, to run — anything but face it fully.
When she finally paused, wiping her cheeks, she glanced at me. “Shall we go to the next one?” she asked gently.
I shook my head, my voice breaking. “I’m not ready to face him yet… neither am I ready to say goodbye.”
She didn’t push. She didn’t force it. She just nodded, a small, understanding smile through her tears. “Okay, darling,” she whispered.
We stood in silence for a moment longer. Then she took my hand, led me back to the car, and drove me toward the airport.
The goodbye I wasn’t ready for lingered behind me like a shadow, but the road ahead… it felt, for the first time in years, like it might actually lead somewhere.