Lyra's POV
Later that night.
I walked home fast, too fast. Like the wind could chase the guilt off my skin. I thought if I moved quickly enough, the memories wouldn't follow.
But they did, every step of the way. And they clung to me like heat.
I thought I'd feel lighter, good, fulfilled, relieved, satisfied. Caught up in that warm, dizzy afterglow people always talked about.
But instead? I felt cracked open, empty on the insides. Painfully, stupidly alive in all the wrong ways.
I wanted him. God, I still wanted him. I hated myself for how easy it was to admit that in my head, but not out loud. Always in my freaking, stupid, fucked-up mind. My mind is the place where the worst part of me hides and waits.
Aurora trusted me. Mason adored me.
And I…
I didn't even push Ethan away. I didn't flinch, didn't say stop, didn't even try. The only move I made was opening my legs wide enough.
Some part of me, the broken, hungry, messed-up part I pretend doesn't exist, still wants to be wanted.
I wanted to matter. I wanted someone to reach for me like I wasn't a burden. Like I wasn't disposable. Like I wasn't me.
By the time I reached the house, my chest felt tight. The lights were off. The street was quiet. The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.
I slipped inside, closing the door gently behind me.
Right… Mom's not home tonight.
Good. She wouldn't see me like this. She wouldn't smell him on my skin. She wouldn't hear my broken breathing.
I dumped my bag on the bed and pulled out my phone.
Messages lit up the lock screen like a slap:
Mason: Hey boo.
In Milan
Mason: Sorry forgot to text before I left.
It was rushed.
Mason: Mom booked the ticket without telling me.
She didn't want me arguing. She already informed my school.
Mason: I'm so sorry I didn't tell you.
You forgive me, right?
Mason: Lyra… don't tell me you're upset.
Mason: Please talk to me. I'm sorry.
Something collapsed inside me.
He was apologizing. For what? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He basically did nothing wrong.
While I? I was in his father's bed.
The truth snapped inside me like a bone.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, but the sob still ripped out. It wa ugly, raw, and too loud for the empty room. My knees hit the edge of the bed and I folded, shaking.
The guilt came back like it never left. Sharp, merciless, and suffocating.
I backed away, whispering, and shaking.
No. No. No. Please not again. Please, world, don't let this happen again.
And then I found the drawer.
The locked one. The one I had always pretended I was stronger than.
It sat there innocent from the outside, but I knew better.
The one Dad used to open every time his temper snapped. Every time he hit me, every time he made me cry.
He would pull out the thing he claimed would "make the world go quiet." He said girls like me were too loud, too emotional, too fragile. And this would fix it.
I hate him for it, hate him for all of it. But I hate myself more for still believing him sometimes.
Because numbness is addicting, silence is addicting. Not feeling anything at all is addicting.
I closed my eyes, cleared my throat. The room felt smaller, like the walls were paper, closing in, the air turning to glass. My breath seized, and my skin itched. Something in the air smelled wrong.
Ethan's voice flashed through my mind. That deep, steady tone he uses when he's trying not to feel anything. I could still hear him say— lean in, sweetheart, and don't leave me like the rest.
The way he held me. His breath on my skin. The way his hands didn't treat me like I was fragile but like I was real.
I pressed my forehead on my knees, whispering questions. Why do I always make things worse? Why does wanting to feel alive make me want to disappear?
The drawer sat there, waiting. Everything in me pulled toward it, but something else fought back. Something that felt like Ethan's hands on my waist, tasted like his lips on mine.
Something that felt like the possibility of wanting to live.
But my hands were shaking, getting closer. No, I whispered. I can't go back, not again. Please.
My fingers rested on the handle. Shaking, betraying me, choosing the one thing that could erase everything.
And that's when the night sliced open. For the first time tonight, the danger wasn't Ethan. It wasn't the secrets I kept. It wasn't the guilt sitting in my chest. It was me.
The version of me I thought I had torn up years ago. The one that was insecure, envious, comparing herself to every single damn person. The one who didn't think she deserved to breathe, the one who believed pain was the only thing she understood.
I'm trying, I really am. I kept telling myself that. Trying to be better, normal, anything but the person I was and still am.
I opened the drawer faster than normal. Fingers brushed cold metal, old pictures, and memories I had no business touching.
I ignored them, I knew what I was searching for. Then I saw it, the quiet maker, my favorite. Dad had different names for each, but the same dark promise.
I heard sounds coming from the front porch. At first, rattling of the doorknob, then jingling of keys, and a familiar footstep.
Lyra? Mom's voice. My chest froze, my breath broke.
I shoved the quiet maker back in, slammed the drawer with my knee, clicked it shut, and threw the keys on a pile of clothes. My hands were shaking as my stomach lurched.
The door opened a crack, and she stepped in halfway, still in her work uniform. Her eyes scanned the room, sharp and suspicious.
You stayed long at the Hale's place, she said softly, but her voice had an edge. I didn't want to disturb you.
She walked closer. My chest tightened. Her gaze narrowed near the drawer, lingering just a second too long. Then she grabbed her charger, like nothing was wrong.
I stayed still, pretending to look through clothes. The drawer wobbled under its own weight, creaking, threatening to betray me.
"Anyway, dinner is in the kitchen," she called, as she walked to the door. "And don't sleep too late."
Her eyes met mine for one more heartbeat before the door shut. And something whispered inside me, darker than guilt, and sharper than fear.
You can't outrun yourself forever.
With terrifying clarity, I knew that one day, something had to break.
It was either me, or the past I kept pretending didn't exist.
And I didn't know which one would happen first.
But I knew it was coming and soon.