Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 7

Maybe I didn’t love her.

Maybe I just needed her.

Because she felt like something solid in a world that kept shifting beneath my feet. Because her voice steadied the noise in my head. Because when she sat beside me, I didn’t feel like I was drowning for a moment.

But need isn’t love.

And love, real love, meant giving, not just taking. And I didn’t know if I had anything to give.

Not to someone like her.

Betty sniffled, wiped her cheeks one more time, and gave me that same half-smile. The one that broke my heart a little.

“Sorry,” she said softly.

I shook my head. “Don’t be.”

The wind picked up, carrying the smell of cut grass and the distant sweetness of flowers. Somewhere, a dog barked. A kid laughed. The world moved on like nothing had just happened.

We sat there for a long time, her shoulder close enough to brush mine. She didn’t ask what I was thinking. And I didn’t say it.

Because some truths are too raw to touch. And some silences say more than words ever could.

We didn’t talk much after that. There was nothing to say, really. Some truths hang in the air too heavy to touch, like smoke that wraps around your throat when you try to speak.

The streets were near empty now, lit only by yellow halos cast from flickering lamp posts. Gravel crunched beneath our shoes. I walked on the outside of the sidewalk, not because I was told to, but because it felt right. She held her arms around herself like she was cold, though the air was warm. I didn’t ask.

When we reached her house, she paused by the gate. The porch light hummed above us, making her hair glow gold at the edges. I wanted to say something to make her laugh again, to fill that silence with something other than the ache I felt.

But she just looked at me and gave a small nod.

“Thanks for walking me.”

I managed a smile. “Anytime.”

She started turning toward the door. And that’s when I saw it.

Just a flicker of pale skin beneath her sleeve, she had pushed it up to scratch at her arm, and in that split second, it was there. The faint, reddish-pink lines carved into her wrist. Small. Angry. Quiet.

Fresh.

Like they hadn’t been there long.

Like maybe… they were recent.

And I froze.

Something inside me cracked, quiet and sharp like ice splitting under pressure.

She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. Or maybe she was just too tired to hide it anymore.

I didn’t say anything. My throat felt like it was closing in, like if I spoke, I’d break. And I wasn’t sure if it was out of shock or guilt or shame that I couldn’t look at her the same way for a moment, not because I saw her differently, but because I realized I never really saw her at all.

I nodded, turned away, and walked home with hands jammed into my pockets, fingernails digging into my palms.

The night felt different now. The air thicker. Every step echoed with something heavier than before.

Betty, who sang Taylor Swift songs and laughed at the top of her lungs. Who wore bright colored dresses and smiled through grief. Who tutored me like it was a privilege, not a burden.

Betty, who carried her father's pain and her own and still made room for mine.

And I, what had I done?

I’d shown up late. Skipped class. Failed tests. Let my anger win more days than not. And she... she sat across from me, patient, kind, giving.

Even when she was bleeding inside.

Even when she had to hide it.

I stared at the sidewalk, eyes burning. My chest ached like it was being crushed inward, like something massive was pressing against my lungs.

She was the light in all my dark. And I never saw the cracks in hers.

And suddenly, everything in me shifted.

Not in some dramatic, movie-scene kind of way.

Quietly.

Like a gear slipping into place.

I would be better.

Not because I wanted to impress her. Not because I felt like I owed her.

But because if the day ever came when her strength ran out, when her light dimmed too far to see...

I would be the one to carry it for her.

I would be her light, the way she’d been mine.

Because sometimes love isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s not fireworks or first kisses.

Sometimes it’s just a quiet promise made on a dimly lit street, when no one else is watching.

And I made it.

Right there.

For her.