Susans pov:
People always assume everyone is handed the same kind of life. As if happiness is guaranteed, like it comes with birth certificates and medical records.
It doesn't.
I was thinking exactly that when I heard it — the sharp, gut-cutting crash of plates hitting the floor. Before I even turned, I already knew what happened.
My mother's boyfriend had thrown them. Again.
His voice thundered through the kitchen walls. You're useless! You can't do anything right!
Her reply was a choked scream — And you're cheap! You think money makes you a man?
I stood in the doorway, clutching my schoolbag like a shield, trying to make myself invisible. I hoped if I breathed small enough, quiet enough, maybe the fight would dissolve. It never does.
My mother's mascara had melted down her cheeks in black rivers. Her dress hung crooked, buttons undone from where he had grabbed her a little too hard. She looked beautiful — painfully, tragically beautiful — because she never learned how to break in private. She breaks where everyone can see her.
That's the curse we share.
The moment she noticed me, the fury in her eyes flipped directions.
You're home early, she snapped, like I had wandered in holding gasoline and a lighter.
I didn't answer. I've learned the silence that protects you. The silence that makes you small enough to survive.
Her boyfriend stormed past me. The stench of whiskey mixed with his cologne almost stung. He didn't even look at me — because people like him only look at things they own. The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. His car engine roared seconds later, peeling away from the street like he couldn't escape fast enough.
My mother's body gave out.
She collapsed onto the cold kitchen tiles, sobbing into shaking hands. Her back curved like a question mark — like she was begging life to answer why her.
I should've gone to her. Wrapped my arms around her. Whispered comfort.
But I couldn't.
Because somewhere inside me, a fear lived — a fear that her sadness would crawl under my skin, settle into my bones, and make a home there. A fear that I would become her.
And I promised myself long ago:
I would rather die than become her.
So I walked out. Into the night. No jacket. No destination. Just the instinct to run — run from a home that never felt like mine.
The air was cold enough to burn. The streetlights stretched and blurred through the tears I refused to let fall. My feet moved on their own, numb, one step after another, until the school appeared through the fog like a shadow from another world.
Cold. Empty. Silent.
And safer than home could ever be.
I slipped through the back gate — the one students jump through when they're late or bored or daring. Tonight it felt like freedom. Darkness swallowed the hallways but I knew the way. The library doors were unlocked, lights humming low. That was enough.
No voices.
No shouting.
No breaking glass.
Just silence.
Or so I thought.
He was already there.
Leaning against a desk, flipping through papers with lazy confidence — as if every book, every chair, every breath inside this room belonged to him.
Dexter.
The new psychology teacher.
He lifted his head slowly, like he already knew I was coming. Like he had been waiting.
You're not supposed to be here this late, he said.
But his tone wasn't scolding. It was curious. As if my pain was an interesting mystery to unravel.
I froze. Humiliation crawled under my skin — my red eyes, streaked lashes, shaking breath exposed under fluorescent lights. I hated that he saw me like this.
He stepped toward me.
And closer.
Did someone hurt you? he asked.
I shook my head. A lie.
His eyes narrowed — not judging, not pitying — just reading me like a book he'd already memorized.
You're a terrible liar, he whispered. That means you care enough to hide.
My chest tightened. Why did that sentence feel like a knife and a hug at the same time?
He lifted his hand — slow, deliberate — and placed one finger beneath my chin. Not touching my skin, just close enough that I could feel the warmth of it. Close enough that I knew he could tip my head up if he wanted to.
If you ever need somewhere to breathe, he murmured, come to my classroom. No talking. No explaining. Just existing.
My whole body trembled. No one had ever told me it was okay to exist.
He turned away first — leaving me suspended in a feeling I couldn't name. Fear. Relief. Recognition. All tangled like barbed wire inside my ribs.
I forced myself to walk out of the library.
But the moment I stepped past the door…
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
You hide your sadness better than your mother ever did.
I froze.
My breath died halfway in my throat. I never gave Dexter my number. I never talked about my mother. Nobody knew what happened tonight. Nobody should've known.
My hands started shaking uncontrollably around the phone.
How… How did he know?
I turned around instinctively — needing proof, denial, anything that made sense.
Dexter was standing at the library window.
Watching me.
Not smiling… but smirking.
Subtle. Confident. Knowing.
Not the harmless kind of smirk. The kind that tells you that someone sees you completely — and that they're not planning to let go.
Right then, I understood something bone-deep and irreversible:
Dexter wasn't just kind.
Wasn't just attentive.
Wasn't just dangerous.
He knew me.
Before I even knew myself.
And whether it saves me or destroys me…
I already knew I would go back to him.
———