The long walk back

The morning of my return to school dawned gray and heavy, as though the clouds themselves carried the same weight pressing down on my chest.

I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time after my alarm went off, staring at the uniform laid out neatly over the chair across the room. The fabric seemed stiffer somehow, colder, and less inviting than I remembered. I ran my fingers over the hem of the skirt, tracing the faint line where it had frayed, and tried to summon some kind of courage.

I was physically healed enough to walk the halls again—at least that was what the doctor had said when he signed my discharge papers. But my ribs still ached when I breathed too deeply. My arm, though no longer in a cast, was tender and stiff. And my skin still bore faint burn marks, pale and angry against the otherwise unmarked canvas of my body.

Those injuries, though, were nothing compared to the bruises no one could see.

I forced myself to stand, dressing slowly, methodically, as though if I pretended this was just any other day, it would somehow make it true.

But it wasn’t.

And as I brushed my hair back into a low ponytail, my eyes caught on my reflection in the mirror.

There was something in my face now—something hollow and watchful. A quiet kind of resolve, maybe, but also a wariness that hadn’t been there before.

When I came downstairs, my mother didn’t look up from her mug of coffee.

My father gave me a cursory glance over the top of his newspaper, his expression unreadable.

Ethan sat at the counter, idly scrolling through his phone, his shoulders drawn tight. His eyes flickered toward me once, but he didn’t speak.

No one did.

The silence was deafening.

I grabbed a piece of toast, swallowing it dry, and left without saying goodbye.

The walk into school felt longer than usual.

Even though the air was cool and brisk, my palms felt damp against the strap of my bag. My legs were steady, but my stomach twisted with every step as though some invisible thread were pulling me backward.

The building loomed ahead, all red brick and sharp edges.

And as I climbed the front steps, I felt every pair of eyes turn toward me.

The whispers started almost immediately.

They didn’t even bother to lower their voices.

“That’s her.”

“She’s the one who almost drowned.”

“Did you hear she made it all up? Just for attention?”

“I heard Jaxon Carter pulled her out. Figures. He probably felt sorry for her.”

I kept my head high, even as my cheeks burned.

Each set of eyes felt like a tiny needle, pricking at my resolve.

Some of them glanced away when I looked back, but others held my gaze, daring me to flinch.

I didn’t.

I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

But it took everything I had to keep my hands from trembling as I pushed through the doors and into the main hallway.

The first few periods passed in a blur of stares and hurried whispers.

It was worse than before.

The teachers pretended not to notice, though one or two gave me tight little smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

Savannah’s minions—those who hadn’t been suspended outright after the pool—still slithered through the halls like snakes. Their laughter was quieter now, more calculated, but it still cut deep.

In English, I found my usual seat already occupied by one of them, her backpack dumped carelessly on the chair.

“Oh,” she said sweetly, looking up at me through mascara-heavy lashes, “did you want to sit here?”

I didn’t answer.

I just moved to the back of the room, ignoring her snickering as I sank into an empty chair.

At lunch, it was worse.

The cafeteria buzzed with the same low-grade cruelty as always, but now the tables seemed to physically turn away from me.

Every time I caught someone’s eye, they looked quickly back to their friends, whispering behind cupped hands.

No one made room for me at any of the tables.

No one even pretended to.

I stood there for a long moment, tray balanced in my shaking hands, before finally retreating to the far corner of the cafeteria to sit by myself.

From across the room, I caught Lucas’s gaze.

He sat with a group of guys from the soccer team, but he gave me the faintest shake of his head—his silent promise that he hadn’t forgotten about me.

And even though I knew he was only keeping his distance because I’d asked him to—for his own safety—it still hurt.

It still made me feel completely, utterly alone.

The rest of the day was no better.

Someone left a dead cockroach on my locker shelf.

Another girl “accidentally” spilled her water bottle across my books in science.

And yet another shoved me in the hallway hard enough to make my ribs scream in protest.

All of it was quiet enough, subtle enough, that no one else noticed—or cared.

By the time the final bell rang, I felt like I’d aged a year in one day.

Lucas caught up with me just outside the building, his long strides closing the distance between us easily.

“Hey,” he murmured, falling into step beside me.

I didn’t say anything at first.

It was dangerous, even now, just to be seen talking to him.

But when I finally risked a glance up at him, the worry etched into his face nearly undid me.

“How bad was it?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning mine.

I let out a shaky breath, forcing a weak smile. “Bad enough.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “If they—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted gently.

He stopped walking, turning to face me fully. “Avery, this isn’t right. You can’t keep letting them—”

“I can’t drag you down with me, Lucas.” My voice cracked, but I held his gaze. “If they see you standing by me, they’ll come after you next. And I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then, finally, he nodded. But the look in his eyes told me this wasn’t over—not for him.

“Text me,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “If it gets too bad. Promise me you’ll at least do that.”

I swallowed hard, then nodded. “I promise.”

His expression softened just slightly before he turned and walked away.

And I stood there, watching him go, feeling the sting of his absence even more than the weight of the whispers behind me.

That night, lying in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jaxon.

I hated myself for it.

But no matter how hard I tried to banish him from my thoughts, his face kept flashing through my mind—those storm-dark eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he was angry, and the warmth of his hands as they bandaged my wounds.

The way his lips tasted when he kissed me.

Even now, the memory of that kiss sent a shiver through me.

There was something about him—something I didn’t understand, something I wasn’t sure I wanted to understand—that kept pulling me back to him like a tide I couldn’t fight.

And I hated that too.

Because Jaxon was dangerous.

Not just because of Savannah. Not just because he existed in a world I would never belong to.

But because when he looked at me, really looked at me, I felt like I was something more than invisible.

And I didn’t know how long I could survive wanting that.

The next morning, when I woke, the ache in my ribs was sharper than usual.

But the ache in my heart was worse.

Because I knew I’d have to do it all over again.

I dressed slowly and carefully, bracing myself for another day of whispers and stares and cruel little games.

Another day of silence at home.

Another day of pretending it didn’t hurt.

As I tied my shoes, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

There was that look in my face again—that watchfulness, that quiet resolve.

I didn’t know how much longer I could keep it up.

But for now, it was all I had.

And so I squared my shoulders, grabbed my bag, and stepped out into the gray morning light