Chapter 2

The elevator doors slid closed, cutting me off from Daniel’s voice and Ashley’s lipstick-smeared mouth. From the life I thought I had.

I stood there numbly, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a wasp in my ears. My hands shook so badly that I had to grip the cold brass railing just to stay upright. I counted the floors as we dropped. Twenty-four. Twenty-three. Twenty-two. Each one thudded into my chest like a hammer.

When the elevator reached the lobby, my vision blurred with unshed tears. I blinked them away furiously. Not here, not in front of these people.

I stumbled outside, the glass doors sucking in warm spring air that should have felt like hope—but didn’t. It felt wrong. Too alive. Too loud. It pressed against my skin, thick and heavy.

I turned left without thinking, my feet moving faster than my mind. Just walk. Keep walking.

A flash of memory hit hard, and suddenly:

Daniel stood in our kitchen, teeth bared in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"You make me late again, and I'll make sure you don't forget it."

That was the first time he grabbed my arm so hard he left bruises like purple fingerprints.

Later, he'd laughed it off. He told me I was too sensitive and bought me flowers at home that night.

I stumbled, almost tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. Steady, Olivia. Steady.

I tightened my grip on the deli bag, which was still dangling from my hand. Useless now. Like everything else, I thought it would fix Daniel.

The breeze carried the smell of blooming jasmine. I used to love that scent, but I hate it now.

Another memory slammed into me:

Daniel closing the car door so hard that it clipped my shoulder when I tried to follow him out after an argument.

Blood had trickled down my arm. He told me later it was my fault for "being dramatic."

A shudder tore through me. I crossed the street without waiting for the light, ignoring the blaring horn that followed. I didn’t care. Let the drivers honk. Let them be angry. At least it wasn’t me this time.

My mind raced, skipping like a scratched record. I couldn’t go home. Daniel had my apartment key—he took it when he slid the ring off my finger in the hallway like it was a debt being repaid.

I patted my pockets. Wallet. ID. Less than a hundred dollars in my bank account. The credit card he gave me would have been canceled if it hadn’t been frozen when he saw my name on his caller ID.

I had nowhere to go.

No family. No friends left who weren’t tied to Daniel somehow. He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he? Isolation was easy when you wore the mask of the perfect boyfriend.

And I let him.

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat and kept walking past shops and cafes that looked too colorful, too bright for the darkness coiling inside me.

I didn’t realize where I was going until I saw the university clock tower in the distance. Familiar. Safe, in a way, nowhere else was.

I turned down the familiar path toward the library, the worn cobblestones under my sneakers grounding me just enough to keep moving.

Inside, the building buzzed with quiet energy—whispers of finals prep, fingers tapping on keyboards, a soft, constant murmur that felt almost comforting.

After checking my ID, the front desk attendant smiled mechanically and slid a keycard toward me. I managed to smile back, my face feeling brittle and hollow.

As I rode the small elevator to the top floor reserved for honor students, I caught my reflection in the mirrored doors—wide, glassy eyes, pale skin, hair tangled from the breeze. I looked like a ghost.

And maybe I was.

The elevator dinged softly. I shuffled out, keycard in hand.

Rows of tall shelves loomed on either side, casting deep shadows. I wandered between them until I found a corner half-hidden from view. An old armchair slumped there like it had given up fighting to be noticed.

I sank into it, my backpack clutched against my chest like a shield.

Safe. For now.

The tears started without permission. Hot and fast and endless.

I buried my face in my jacket sleeve to muffle the sound. Even now, the fear of making a scene twisted like a knife.

I flashed back to another memory.

I was eight years old and living in foster home number five. Mrs. Redmond was yanking my hair so hard that my scalp burned because I had forgotten to fold the towels. "Stop crying, you little brat. Nobody wants to hear you snivel."

I bit my lip until I tasted blood and forced the sobs back into my chest.

Nobody wanted to hear me then. Nobody would like to listen to me now.

Maybe Daniel was right, the poisonous thought whispered.

Maybe you are working too much.

I curled tighter into the chair, my knees drawn to my chest. The library's dim lighting blurred into a soft haze. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt truly safe. Maybe I never had.

The last thing I remembered was the faint scent of old books and dust as I drifted into a restless, broken sleep.