Page 192 of 912321

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. She wipes her face angrily, furious at the tears.

“I’m strong,” she says, her voice shaking with rage. “I’m strong and you treated me like glass.”

“I…” Nothing comes out again. I don’t know what to say, I got carried away with my own vengeance and old habits. Thinking that being over-protective is a right when I should’ve known not to lose myself in this.

She takes a step back, breathing hard. “You don’t get to protect me like that. You don’t get to decide what breaks me.” Then, quieter, she adds, “But you lied.”

She turns toward the door.

“Wait,” I say, panic clawing up my throat. “Stay. It’s too late, Mireya.”

She spins back, yelling, “Don’t even come near me.” Her hand curls into a fist. “I will fucking punch you in the face if you touch me.”

I freeze. She doesn’t want to talk to me.

She opens the door, and I fight the urge to close it back. She’s strong, and mostly, she’s angry at me. “Text me when you get home,” I say. “So I know you’re safe.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Fuck you.”

“Please,” I say, standing in the doorway but not crossing it. “Just text me. So I know you’re okay.”

But she doesn’t answer. The door shuts. I stand there, staring at the file.

I thought I was protecting her. I realize now I was protecting my idea of her. A fragile narrative I built because it made me feel in control.

She wasn’t fragile. She was forged.

And I treated her like something that would shatter if I spoke.

86

Mireya

Past

Play - Train Wreck by James Arthur

Still making wishes

The concrete is still warm here, I can see the ocean from where I am. I don’t like going to school. It’s strange… I have to pretend all day long, cover my bruises, cover my pain. I have to make the entire silence in my blood feel normal. The bruises under my jacket stings a lot from the fabric rubbing against them. But I don't take it off, I never do.

Ethan drops next to me with the bottles. “Here,” he says, handing me one. “You’re gonna complain again if it’s not your favorite one.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, but a smile appears on my lips.

He flicks the lighter for me, it clicks twice before it works. A long and deep drag and I inhale it, the smoke scratching my throat.

“Is he still violent?” he asks, staring at the sky like he didn’t just say that.

“Not your business.”

He hums like he expected that, then lies back, arms behind his head. The sky is orange and purple, the air is cold and the parking lot stinks. “Are you still thinking about your mom?” he asks.

“Always.” I stare at the bottle in my other hand and take a gulp before adding, “I think she would still be alive if I was a good kid.”

He laughs. “You are a good kid, dumbass. You’re smarter than everyone in class.”

“Maybe it wasn’t enough.”