The bus ride home felt unusually long.
Arriella rested her forehead against the window, watching the city blur by, her thoughts drifting into old wounds she had worked so hard to bury.
She wasn't most afraid of her mother. It was her father.
Her father's silence cut deeper than any shouting. He wasn't a man who raised his voice—he was a disappointer. Just a raised eyebrow from him could shatter her confidence. He didn't speak often, but when he did, his words pierced right through her.
He was the one she feared losing the most.
Not because he was perfect, but because a small part of her believed he was the only one who loved her, even just a little—despite his infrequent displays of affection.
Her mother? Her mother's love felt like sunlight filtering through dirty glass—present, but never warm.
Growing up, her mother could show affection, yes, but only when others were watching. Only when there was something to gain.
Her uncle abroad regularly sent money to "support her schooling." He genuinely cared. But her mother… well, her mother often kept the money, using it for the house, for her brothers, or whatever else she deemed necessary.
Whenever her uncle checked in to see if she received the money, her mother would hurriedly call her at 5 AM: "Arriella, call him now! Thank him! Don't disgrace me!"
Those calls made her feel like a child with nothing to offer, always one wrong move away from becoming a burden.
And recalling how her mother would delay sending money for food during school—or only send just enough to scrape by—made her throat tighten.
Even while she was in school, she struggled. The little they sent covered barely anything. They repeatedly said, "Manage," "Your sisters are sending money too, so you shouldn't complain," and "Apply for school loans now! We can't carry everything on our shoulders."
Every conversation felt like she was the problem. The unlucky child. The messy one. The disappointment.
The girl who couldn't get it right.
As the bus rocked forward, memories of her mistakes crashed into her chest.
"I should've done better. I should've stayed focused. I should've never let Jordan into my life."
Jordan. Just hearing his name made her jaw tighten.
He ruined so much—but she had allowed it.
She remembered the night before her scholarship exam—one exam that could have changed everything, one opportunity that could have saved her from all this.
But Jordan wanted to go partying. He begged, manipulated, and made her feel guilty until she finally relented.
She went with him, came back late, and overslept.
She missed the exam.
Sometimes she wondered if Jordan had destroyed her life… or if she had allowed him to.
The shame still burned like a fresh wound.
Her parents blamed her. Her siblings judged her in silence. Her mother constantly reminded her: "Look at your sisters—can't you be like them? Always bringing us joy."
As for her brothers? Their mistakes were brushed aside, forgotten in an instant, excused as "boys will be boys."
But her? Every flaw was magnified. Every mistake remembered.
The youngest "bad" child. The careless daughter. The girl who wasted her life.
Arriella swallowed hard as the bus turned onto her street.
Her bag felt heavier with the money she had worked for. Her heart felt heavier with everything she had lost. Her hands trembled at the thought of the chaos awaiting her.
They would shout. They would blame her. They might even disown her.
And yet… she still wanted to tell them.
Not for their forgiveness. Not for their approval. But because she could no longer breathe under the weight of her lies.
She missed who she used to be—the girl with dreams bigger than the world, the girl who believed she was destined for greatness.
She wasn't the only one to blame. Her parents had failed her. Jordan had misled her. Life had hit her hard.
But she was finally taking responsibility. Finally choosing honesty. Finally choosing herself.
Khalid's words echoed in her mind: "You're not a failure. You're fixing your life."
As she stepped off the bus, her legs trembling, she knew:
Tonight would change everything.
For better or worse.
The storm was coming.
But this time, she wasn't running. She wasn't hiding.
She was walking into the fire—and hoping she wouldn't burn completely.