Page 14 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
Covering myself has always felt necessary. Protective. In Spokehaven, it’s easy to hide under coats and sweaters. The cold makes it normal.
I tune back into their conversation as it swells again, something in me pushing forward before I can stop it.
“I could have ended up like him,” I say.
The room falls silent.
Both of them turn to look at me.
“If I wasn’t a coward,” I add, my voice steadier than I expect.
Rising slowly from the floor, I brush imaginary dust from my skirt. My hands tremble slightly, but I force myself to keep going.
“She did what she did because she knew I was there,” I say. “But I can’t pretend I didn’t think about helping her that night. I can’t pretend I didn’t feel trapped enough to imagine it. And I can’t pretend I wasn’t relieved when it was over.”
The admission hangs in the air.
Maria and Cheyenne don’t interrupt this time. They don’t argue.
They just look at me differently.
Not scared.
Not angry.
Just… understanding.
And that understanding feels far more exposing than any accusation ever could.
Maria moves first.
“I know,” she whispers softly, pushing herself up from the chair and stepping toward me before I can say anything else.
Her arms wrap around me without hesitation. It’s not a careful hug or a hesitant one. It’s firm and grounding, like she’s trying to hold me together for a second. I lean into her automatically, my forehead pressing against her shoulder. Thefamiliar scent of her coconut shampoo fills the space between us, warm and comforting in a way that makes my chest loosen.
For the first time since the conversation started, I let my shoulders drop.
“I’m sorry we weren’t there before,” she murmurs.
Her voice is thick with something close to regret, even though there’s nothing she could have done back then.
“You can’t erase the past,” I say quietly, tightening my arms around her. “None of us can.”
The words come out as more of a tired acceptance than anything else. The past is something you carry, not something you fix.
Behind us, Cheyenne makes an exaggerated groan.
“God, now I want in on that,” she complains, her voice wobbling as if she’s trying not to get emotional and failing.
We both laugh faintly as she stumbles across the room and wedges herself into the hug with zero grace. Her arms wrap around both of us at once, squeezing too tight in that dramatic Cheyenne way that somehow makes the moment lighter.
For a few seconds we just stand there, tangled together in the middle of my bedroom floor. No one says anything. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the kind that settles after something heavy has finally been said out loud.
Eventually I pull back, brushing a hand over my face as I take a breath.
“Alright,” I say with a small laugh, the mood shifting as naturally as it always does between us. “Now that we’ve had our emotional bonding moment, can I ask a few questions?”
Cheyenne narrows her eyes immediately, suspicion already forming.
