The sunlight outside the therapy wing was brighter than expected, almost too bright. Emily stood on the stone steps for a moment, blinking against the glare. Her palms were damp. Her pulse was steady—but fast.
She'd done it.
She had walked into that room, looked someone in the eye, and said the words: They hurt me. And no one did anything.
The words had hung in the air like smoke, curling around everything unsaid. And yet, the sky hadn't fallen. The walls hadn't caved in. Dr. Lian had simply nodded—quiet, grounded—and said: That's where we'll start.
And it was strange how freeing that felt.
Later that evening, back at the safe house, she sat in her room with her notebook open on her desk. A candle flickered beside her, its warm scent drifting lazily into the air. She didn't write anything at first. Just sat with the blank page.
Then slowly, she picked up her pen and began a list:
Things I want to let go of:
•The look in Vanessa's eyes when she smiled before hurting me.
•The shame when I walked into school with bruises.
•The silence of teachers who saw everything and said nothing.
•The lie that I deserved it.
She paused, tears burning behind her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
She added one more line.
- The belief that I'm not allowed to be angry.
She closed the notebook and placed it beside her bed. Her thoughts swirled, heavy and tangled, but something felt different now.
She wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was starting to process.
⸻
Sunday morning came with soft rain tapping against the windows. Most of the house was still asleep. Emily padded to the kitchen for tea, only to find Zoe already there, making instant noodles.
"You look like you just came back from war," Zoe said with a smirk, raising an eyebrow.
Emily managed a small laugh. "Felt like it."
Zoe offered her a second mug. "Therapy?"
Emily nodded. "Yeah."
There was a beat of silence. Then Zoe said, "Takes guts to go. Took me a month to even open my mouth in there."
"What changed?"
Zoe shrugged, but her voice dropped to a softer pitch. "Eventually, I got tired of holding it all in. Anger. Guilt. All that crap eats at you if you don't let it out."
Emily stirred her tea slowly. "It still scares me."
"It's supposed to. Healing hurts. But it's worth it."
They sipped in quiet for a moment.
And in that stillness, Emily didn't feel alone.
On Monday morning, Emily returned to the pathway center for her first official week of classes. Her schedule was taped to the front of her notebook like a badge: Engineering Math, 3D Modeling, Intro to Structural Design, and Critical Thinking Lab.
The moment she entered the classroom, she felt something click.
She wasn't the smartest in the room. She didn't have the most experience. But the subjects lit something inside her—a spark she'd feared was lost.
In the 3D modeling class, she sat next to a boy named Isaac who had transferred from a tech school after getting injured on a job site. "You'll like the instructor," he said, tapping on his laptop. "She used to work at an architecture firm."
Emily nodded, still shy, but grateful.
They were given their first group task: create a basic prototype for a shelter using recyclable materials and submit the design plan by next week.
Emily's mind raced with possibilities.
By the end of class, she already had a rough sketch in her notebook—triangular beams for strength, foldable panels for mobility, and a solar-paneled roof. It wasn't perfect. But it was a start.
At lunch, she sat at the outdoor bench with her file of notes spread in front of her.
The wind tugged gently at the corners, but she pressed them down with a smile. She was here. Learning. Dreaming again.
A few feet away, two other girls were laughing about how their project turned into a crooked tent model. Someone offered Emily a cookie. She accepted it.
It was oatmeal. Warm, chewy.
And it tasted like kindness.
That night, Emily joined the optional journaling group Clara had mentioned. Just five girls in the common room, soft music in the background, all scribbling quietly into pages that might never be read aloud.
She didn't write much.
Just one sentence.
"I'm still angry, but I'm not buried by it."
And that was enough.
Days passed. Slowly, steadily.
There were setbacks—nights where nightmares dragged her back to old memories, moments where a sudden laugh or loud voice made her flinch.
But there were also triumphs.
A math test returned with a high score circled in red.
A design that got praised for balance and creativity.
A call from Grace telling her that someone from the HopeBridge legal team would be reaching out soon.
"They want to go over your options," Grace had said gently. "Only when you're ready."
Emily nodded, gripping her phone tightly. "Okay."
She wasn't ready. Not yet.
But the idea that someone believed justice was still possible…
It planted something in her.
One night, as she lay awake, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars Sade had stuck on the ceiling, Emily whispered to herself,
"I'm still here."
And the words didn't sound like a question anymore.
They sounded like a vow.