First message
I didn’t expect the new school to feel this quiet. Grief has a way of muting everything, like the world learned to speak softer after my dad died. New town, new halls, new faces that don’t know me. I walk into English with my schedule folded tight in my hand, ready to disappear into the back row.
And then I see her.
She’s sitting near the window, sunlight catching her hair, posture calm, unguarded. Not the girl I remember, but the woman she became after I broke her. My chest locks. My feet stop moving. Three years collapse into one sharp breath. I know her instantly, and the shame hits so hard it’s almost physical.
Introduce yourself, the teacher says.
My name sticks in my throat. I manage it anyway, voice low, hands cold. I can feel her presence without her looking at me. Then the teacher gestures casually, like this isn’t cruel fate at work.
Have a seat, Mr. Vex.
The empty chair is next to her.
I walk over like I’m stepping onto thin ice and sit down, careful not to touch her. My heart is pounding so loud I’m sure she hears it. She doesn’t look at me. Not once. And somehow that hurts worse than if she had.
I stare at the desk, at my hands, at anything but her face. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say a thousand things. Instead, I sit in the silence I earned, realizing this is where my past finally caught up to me. The bell hasn’t even rung, and I already know this year will change me in ways I can’t escape. I swallow hard and breathe.