Author's Note / Content Notice
This story contains themes of emotional manipulation, obsessive relationships, trauma bonding, parental instability, and psychological distress. Some scenes may be triggering for readers sensitive to controlling dynamics or unhealthy romantic attachment.
Reader discretion is advised.
"I am not staying the whole week."
Ashlyn said it before the car was fully in park. The blinker kept ticking even though they were already stopped in the gravel lot, pine trees pressing in on both sides, cabins scattered like they belonged to some brochure version of peace. A wooden sign near the entrance read WELCOME TO CAMP STILLWATER in cheerful carved letters.
Her mother finally turned off the signal.
Thank God, Ashlyn thought. The clicking had been scraping at her nerves the entire drive — a steady, useless sound that went nowhere. It felt too familiar. Repeating. Pointless. Like being stuck inside something that refused to move forward.
"You are."
"I can't do this."
Her throat burned. "You can't just bring me here and expect me to be fine."
"You will be."
"No. I can't." Her voice cracked and she hated that it did. "You can't just drop me somewhere with strangers and expect me to magically be different."
Her mom shut off the engine, and the sudden silence felt heavier than the argument.
"This isn't about magic," she said quietly. "It's about effort. About getting you out of your comfort zone."
Ashlyn laughed once, sharp and brittle. "You mean pretending."
She was used to pretending.
Her mother's jaw tightened. "You don't get to quit everything the second it feels uncomfortable."
Uncomfortable.
That word again.
Ashlyn stared through the windshield at kids unloading duffel bags like this was normal. Like they weren't being abandoned in the name of growth.
"You and Dad used to say that too," she muttered. "Right before you'd pack a bag."
Her mother flinched. Small. Quick. But Ashlyn saw it. She always saw it.
"That's not fair."
"Neither is this."
A car door slammed somewhere behind them. Laughter drifted through the trees. It all sounded too easy.
"If I hate it, I'm calling Dad," Ashlyn said, gripping her phone. The wallpaper was an old photo of her and her father before everything fractured into quiet tension and separate rooms.
"You can call whoever you want. You're still staying."
That was the problem.
People always said they would stay — until they didn't. They stayed angry. They stayed silent. They stayed pretending. Nothing ever felt stable. Calm was temporary. Calm was just the quiet before something broke.
Her mother reached for her hand. "You cannot keep living inside your head. You have to try."
Ashlyn pulled away first.
***
The circle that evening smelled like smoke, pine sap, and forced vulnerability. Tanner stood in the middle like he had practiced this moment in front of a mirror.
"What is your biggest fear?" he asked brightly. "This is so we can learn something about each other."
Ashlyn folded her arms and avoided eye contact. She never could hold eye contact with strangers. It made her skin feel too tight, like she was being inspected for cracks.
A girl across the circle raised her hand. "I'm afraid of suffocating."
"Valid fear," Tanner said with a grin. "No plastic bags here."
Laughter rippled around the fire pit.
A boy with glasses cleared his throat. "I'm afraid there's no afterlife. My parents died when I was young. I want to see them again."
The circle went quiet for half a second. That half second stretched too long.
"Wrong camp for that, buddy," Tanner said lightly. "Next."
Ashlyn's stomach twisted.
Why ask if you don't want the real answer?
Another boy hesitated when Tanner pointed at him. "I'm afraid of being judged."
The blonde girl beside him didn't pause. "I'm judging you right now."
The circle exploded into laughter.
Ashlyn did not laugh.
She watched the boy's face instead. The shift was small — barely visible — a tightening around his mouth before he forced a grin.
That was worse.
She hated that she noticed.
She hated that no one else seemed to.
And then something colder settled in her chest.
She had judged him too.
For saying it out loud. For being that honest. For handing strangers something they could use against him.
"Ashlyn?"
Her name hit like a thrown rock.
She looked up too fast. Her pulse spiked.
"Your biggest fear."
Twenty faces turned toward her. Her mother sat just behind her, close enough to hear. Close enough to dissect it later.
Ashlyn's fingers dug into her palms.
"I'm not afraid of anything."
The blonde girl snorted. "Of course you're not. You look like the type who thinks she's better than everyone."
A few people laughed again.
Heat crawled up Ashlyn's neck.
"Nothing?" Tanner pressed.
She shrugged. "Not really."
It was a lie, and she knew it.
She was afraid of everything.
Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of being too much. Afraid of not being enough. Afraid of people leaving. Afraid of people staying.
She had worn that same tight smile through the divorce. Through the nights her house felt like a war zone dressed up as normal. Through the night her sister was sent away to an out-of-town program after things spiraled too far to pretend anymore. Through the whispers about the baby that cracked whatever illusion of stability they had left.
She had learned something early.
Do not hand people ammunition.
"Okay," Tanner said lightly. "Brave girl."
The way he said it felt like doubt.
The circle moved on.
Ashlyn's skin felt too tight.