Page 42 of She Who Holds My Wrath

Dad: Come on kiddo, dnt ignore me.

Dad: Wow. Ok.

On and on, begging for money, being angry, apologising, and repeat. But not one text showing concern that he hadn’t heard from his only daughter in months. Typical.

I open the group text thread, seeing several messages from Ezra, and my heart pounds in my chest.

Ezra: Please. Bring me back.

Ezra: Daisy. Please.

Ezra: I need you.

Ezra: Fuck. I miss you both so much.

Ezra: I dropped out of college. I can’t do this without you both.

Ezra: I love you guys.

Panic surges up my throat like bile so quickly, it becomes hot and suffocating. My mind latches instantly onto the worst possible explanation for that final message. Something happened. Something has to have happened. Ezra wouldn’t just send that text then vanish. My hands shake as I tap his contact, the screen blurring for a second before I manage to slam my thumb against the call button hard enough, I’m surprised the screen didn’t crack. I press the phone to my ear, already pacing. It starts ringing. Each tone drills straight through my skull.

I pace the length of the room, then back again, my shoes scuffling across the floor the only sound. My free hand twists into the fabric of my shirt, my knuckles bleached white as my breaths come in too fast, too shallow. Come on, Ez. Please.

The ringing continues, feeling way too long. A thousand images crash through my mind in rapid succession—Ezra laughing, Ezra crying, Ezra standing beside me at the worst moments of my life, glitter sparkling on his ivory skin and defiance in his eyes. The thought of that light gone, snuffed out like everyone else, makes my stomach drop so violently, I have to brace a hand against the wall.

“Pick up,” I whisper, the words breaking apart on my lips. “Please just pick up.” The call keeps ringing. Every second stretches my sanity thin, and brittle.

My heart hammers so hard it hurts—a frantic, painful rhythm that fills my ears, drowning out everything else. For one terrifying moment, I’m convinced this is it—that the silence on the other end is the only answer I’m ever going to get. That I’m already too late.

Just as I’m sure it’s about to go to voicemail, the call connects.

“Hello?”

Ezra’s voice comes through the line, thin and fractured, like it’s been scraped raw from too much crying. It doesn’t sound like him at all. There’s no brightness, no sparkle, no dramatic flair. Just exhaustion and something hollow underneath that makes my chest ache. For a split second, I can’t speak. He’s alive. He’s actually alive.

I burst into a sob before I can stop it, loud and ugly and completely uncontrollable. “Ezra.” Silence from the other side deafens me, and I panic. Did the call drop? Did he hang up? Did I imagine— “Ezra. It’s me. It’s Daisy.”

His choked cry fills the line. “Daisy?” he whispers, like he’s afraid of allowing himself the hope of believing I’m here. “No…. no. That’s not⁠—”

“I’m here,” I choke out, tears spilling freely down my face. “I’m here, Ez. I’m here.”

His sobs fill my ear, so raw and shattered, and something inside me finally gives way. My knees buckle. I slide down the cabinet behind me until I hit the floor, my back pressing hard against the cold surface. My entire body trembles uncontrollably, the adrenaline draining out of my body all at once. I clutch the phone to my ear with both hands, desperate to keep him close.

“Daisy? Oh fuck. I’ve missed you so much,” he hiccups.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I cry, my chest heaving so hard it hurts. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so fucking sorry.”

My emotions bleed out of me as I cry into the phone. Guilt wracks me, for disappearing, for surviving, for leaving him alone in the wreckage of everything we lost. My tears drop onto the floor, blurring my vision until the kitchen dissolves into smears of colour. But he’s alive.

My heart is pounding so violently it feels like it might break through my ribs. The sound of his breathing through the phone is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

“Where are you?” he asks, voice still shaking.

“I’m at my apartment.” I drag in a shaky breath, pressing my forehead against my knees. “Can you come over?”

There’s no hesitation. “I’ll be there in ten,” he says immediately, panic threading through his words. “Please, wait for me.”

As if I would go anywhere. I hear him shuffling around frantically—drawers slamming, footsteps, the rustle of fabric—like he’s desperately throwing himself together as fast as humanly possible, terrified that if he takes too long, I’ll disappear again.