The memory came back in fragments — like broken glass she couldn't sweep away.
The way he looked at her that afternoon.
The way she smiled back, trusting him like she always did.
Amara sat on the edge of her bed, her phone glowing silently beside her. Kelvin's name hovered on her screen, unread messages piling up like guilt. But she didn't open them. She couldn't. Not yet.
They had known each other for years — long before Tristian even existed in her world.
Kelvin wasn't just her friend. He was her person.
Her emergency contact, her constant. The one who knew her secrets — her silly fears, her soft dreams.
He called her "Sunshine." She used to laugh at that, used to believe it.
Now the name made her sick.
She hugged her knees to her chest, remembering the text that had started it all.
> "Let's hang out. Just us. Maybe get a hotel room? No weird stuff, I promise 😇"
Amara had stared at the message for a full minute. Her heart didn't skip in warning — it skipped in excitement.
Kelvin always said things like that — flirtatious, playful. He teased her endlessly, but he never crossed the line.
Not until he did.
> "Are you serious?" she'd replied, adding a laughing emoji to hide her confusion.
"Yeah. Just vibes. You trust me, don't you?"
And she did.
That day, he met her at the bus stop with his usual crooked grin and baggy hoodie. She had dressed up, a little — a light pink dress and her favorite sandals. She thought they were going to watch a movie or something.
But when they got to the hotel, the receptionist had turned them away.
"Fully booked."
Kelvin had looked disappointed, then quickly shrugged it off.
> "Wanna grab something to eat instead?"
They found a small restaurant with dim lights and noisy couples. She had thought it was romantic — even if she didn't feel that way toward him. It was comfortable. Familiar.
After the meal, she excused herself to the restroom, and that's when it happened.
He followed her in.
At first, she thought it was a joke. Kelvin always joked.
But the door locked.
And his face wasn't smiling anymore.
Amara blinked the memory away.
Her throat tightened.
The worst part — the part that made her stomach twist — was that she didn't scream.
She didn't fight.
She just kept whispering "Kelvin, stop," over and over again, like if she said it sweetly enough, he would remember who he was.
She remembered the smell of cheap soap. The harsh brightness of the restroom light.
And the moment she realized he wasn't going to listen.
Afterwards, he had acted like nothing had happened.
Laughed. Took a selfie.
She smiled in it.
Amara pressed her palms into her eyes, trying to erase the memory. But it clung like oil — staining everything she thought she knew about him.
About herself.
Why hadn't she said no louder?
Why hadn't she pushed him away?
Why did she still miss talking to him?
A new message flashed on her screen. Kelvin again.
> "Can we talk? I'm sorry, okay? Please don't shut me out."
Her heart twisted.
She didn't know how to reply.
She didn't know if she should reply at all.
Instead, she opened her journal and wrote:
"I trusted him. I let him in. And now I don't even know where the betrayal began. Was it the moment he touched me, or the moment I smiled and let it go?"