Bella
I left Darrell’s office and kept walking—fast at first, then slower as the hallway stretched on. My legs felt heavy, like they were moving through water. Every step echoed in my chest, right where that strange, squeezing ache lived now. I pressed my palm against my sternum again and squeezed hard like I could force the feeling back down into whatever hole it had crawled out of.
What was this? I’d told myself a hundred times it was just guilt. Just shame. Just the aftermath of using my body to survive. But it didn’t feel like guilt anymore. It felt… tender. Raw. Like something had been torn loose inside me and I couldn’t find the edges to stitch it back together.
I pictured him standing behind his desk; the way his shoulders had dropped when I said we were done, and the quiet crack
