Do you know what this cost me?
Me, me, me.
His favorite hymn.
I press my fingertips into my eyes until I see stars.
Don’t panic. Don’t spiral. Don’t do that thing where you start calculating how to fix this like it’s a seating chart and not your entire life.
But my body is already reacting like it’s back in the city. Back in that glass and steel world where everything is bright and expensive and sharp-edged, and there is always a camera somewhere, watching, recording, documenting whether you’re behaving appropriately.
I feel sick to my stomach.
The phone buzzes again. I flinch like it’s a wasp.
I don’t look.
I can’t.
Because if I look, I’ll start doing what I always do: scrambling, fixing, apologizing, and finally shrinking.
And I am so tired of shrinking.
A soft knock comes at the door.
“Faith?” Mom’s voice is gentle, careful. Like she’s approaching a skittish horse.
I clear my throat. “Yeah.”
The door eases open, and she steps in, already dressed, hair pulled back, face lined with worry she’s trying to hide.
Her eyes flick to the phone. Then to my face.
She doesn’t ask what happened.
She already knows.
“He’s trying to scare you,” she murmurs.
My eyes burn. “It’s working.”
She squeezes. “Of course it is.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t want to leave the house.”
Mom’s mouth presses into a thin line.
“Okay.”
I blink at her. “Okay?”
“For right now,” she clarifies. “You’re allowed to be afraid. But you’re not allowed to let him trap you in this room.”
The panic spikes. “Mom?—”
She cuts in softly, “Faith, sweetheart, listen to me.”
I look at her, and it’s like my body remembers what safety feels like.
