Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 19

All this time, I thought I was getting better. That I was healing. But the sea—violent, merciless—ripped away every bandage I had carefully wrapped around my soul. And what it exposed wasn’t a scar.

It was a wound.

Still fresh. Still bleeding. Deeper than ever.

I thought I had moved on.

I thought I was stronger.

But tonight, in that ocean, when the sky cracked open and the water pulled me under, I didn’t fight because I wanted to live.

I fought because I remembered my dad. And James. And how it would destroy them.

But for a moment—I wanted to go. I was ready.

And now… now that I’m here, safe, dry, alive—I almost wish I had let go.

Because surviving doesn’t mean healing.

And breathing doesn’t mean I’m whole.

I reached for the drawer beside my bed. My fingers hesitated at the handle. They knew what was inside. I knew.

But not tonight.

Not when I’ve already drowned once.

I slammed it shut.

Pressed my face into my pillow.

And wept like the sea hadn’t already emptied me.

Morning came too soon.

The sun poured through my window like it always did—but it wasn’t golden anymore. It was pale. Blue-tinged. Cold. It touched my skin like fire, but somehow chilled me to the bone. I didn’t move at first. Just stared at the ceiling, unmoving, feeling the residue of yesterday settle over me like dust on glass.

I sat up.

The drawer caught my eye.

And my body—traitor that it is—began to tremble.

The storm wasn’t over. It had just moved inside. I could feel it in my chest, circling my ribs like a wave waiting to crash. My hands twitched. My mouth tasted like metal. I stared at the drawer a little too long.

No. Not today.

I stood up and walked straight to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped in while the water was still cold. It shocked my skin, jolted something back into place—or at least numbed it. I let the water pour down my face, mingling with the tears I hadn’t realized were already falling again. Maybe if I let the water keep running, it would wash the thoughts away too.

Maybe it could make me clean again.

But water can’t reach what’s broken on the inside.

I toweled off, put on my uniform, did my makeup carefully—enough to brighten my eyes, distract from how dead they felt. But I didn’t touch my hair. Left it wet. Let it drip down my back, darkening the fabric of my blouse.

I didn’t care.

I walked down the stairs slowly, each step a silent rehearsal. By the last one, I inhaled deep, buried the ache back inside, tightened the lid on the jar in my chest until it nearly cracked. Then I smiled.

A bright, blinding smile.

My dad was in the kitchen, turning to me with a hopeful softness. He looked tired. Worried. Like he hadn’t slept.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully, the performance already second nature.

He squinted at me. “What’s wrong, B?”