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Prologue

Play - When I close my eyes by Tom Odell

Make A Wish

She’s sitting there, waiting for the firefly to bring her back home. Gravity has softened its grip on her and decided not to correct the way she leans toward the edge of the cliff.

Don’t fall, I won’t catch you.

In her hands, the origami star trembles as she lifts it toward the moon waiting for her wish to be fulfilled.

Her skin is still the same atlas of afters, bruises like ink spilled by a pen on an already ripped page, scars drawn in fear and repetition, in things that taught her body how cruel this world is.

Tears marking her cheeks, and still, her mouth holds that strange smile she always kept when she was pretending everything was okay. Same face, same broken heart.

She probably doesn't know I failed.

“Don't look at me like that,” she says without looking away from the sky.

I sit next to her, breathing the air slowly, willingly inhaling the pain this place offers, and feeling the guilt before the love.

“You look tired,” she adds.

I let out a small laugh that made her smile wider before saying, “I’ve always been tired.”

She studies me like she’s checking if that’s true or just something adults say when they run out of lies. She’s still there, ten years old, small, learning early how to fold herself into something invisibly hurt. “You’re sitting too close to the edge,” she says eventually.

“You too,” I answer, my feet hanging over the empty ocean.

“Why are you feeling bad?”

I look at her, confused. “How do you know that?”

“You always come back when you feel bad. You never talk to me if you’re not sad.”

My throat tightens and I can feel the tears begging to be let out. “Because I couldn’t protect you.”

“It’s okay, I don’t hate you,” she replies in a small voice, still smiling.

“You will,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her head shakes immediately. “No. No, I won’t.”

I look at her then, and it hurts more than anything ever has. More than the slaps, more than the abuse, more than life itself. “You don’t know that,” I whisper.

“I do,” she says, and her voice cracks on the last word.

A silence settles between us, and I can’t hold her gaze for long, so I don’t. I just look at her, trying to memorize something I already lost. Pain has her shape and I’m forcing myself to remember it, so I never forget the innocence it cost me to sit here next to her once more.

“I’m more broken,” I say quietly. “And everyone hates how sad I am.”

“Still?” She says again, softer now.

“Still.”

My throat tightens. “I’m sorry,” I add, and it sounds useless the second it leaves me.

She doesn’t answer right away, instead, she shifts closer. She hugs me from the side, without letting go of the star, then her hand lifts, her fingers touching my cheek gently.