Phoebe had been in a coma for nearly a month. Before her accident, she had asked to meet me.
I had already been unnerved by her manipulative behavior in the past and wanted to refuse, but under Stephen's disdainful gaze, I found myself unable to protest. Instead, I lowered my head and silently acquiesced.
This was always how it went. Years of ingrained self-doubt followed me like a shadow, especially when Stephen was involved.
No matter how much I tried to stand tall, I felt like a balloon—fragile and ready to burst. The closer I got to Stephen, the sharper his edges became, always puncturing my resolve.
…
Phoebe arrived wearing a white dress, her gaze gentle, her voice as soft as her appearance.
"Raelynn," she said, her tone calm and understanding. "I know you once saved Stephen, and I'm grateful for that. But he's my boyfriend. Please, stop interfering with our relationship, okay?"
I clenched my fists, my palms slick with sweat. I had no idea what Phoebe's real intentions were, which only made me more nervous.
In my experience, the softer her tone, the heavier the blame she was about to place on me.
I quickly gestured in sign language, "I haven't been near Stephen lately. Please, believe me."
Phoebe smiled warmly and reached out as if to reassure me with a pat on the shoulder. The moment her hand came close, I instinctively flinched and raised my hands in a defensive push.
She smirked, leaning into the motion before tumbling dramatically down the staircase.
"Raelynn, what have you done?!" Stephen growled.
I knew he had been watching from nearby. I wouldn't dare provoke Phoebe on purpose, but it didn't matter.
…
Phoebe never woke up after that fall.
The doctors said that if she remained unconscious much longer, she might spend the rest of her life in a vegetative state.
Stephen, his eyes red with fury, dragged me to the dark, suffocating basement. He told me that as long as Phoebe remained in her coma, I would never see the light of day.
