Never Not You

A shell of herself

The days blurred together, and Aurora moved through them like a ghost in her own life. Each step felt heavier than the last, like walking through water that threatened to pull her under with every movement. She had assured Amanda she'd be fine alone, and Amanda had believed her, though Aurora could see the hesitation in her eyes. But Amanda had left after settling Mateo, her quiet strength lingering in the air even after she was gone.

Now, without Amanda's steady presence, the silence was deafening. Aurora functioned on autopilot, going through the motions of feeding and changing Mateo, her touch mechanical and distant. Mateo was her only lifeline, the small spark of life she clung to when everything else felt like it was crumbling. Every time he cried, she responded, though there were moments when the sound felt like it was coming from a distance, through a fog she couldn't quite break through.

She knew, deep down, that if it weren't for him, she might not have gotten out of bed at all. The thought terrified her, but there it was—a quiet whisper in the back of her mind. Mateo was her only reason for staying grounded. His tiny fingers clutching at her shirt, his soft whimpers in the night, the way he looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes—all of it was a reminder that she couldn't give in to the overwhelming weight pressing down on her. But even as she held him close, the sensation of unraveling was ever-present, her breath shaky, her hands barely steady as she rocked him to sleep.

The attacks hadn't stopped. If anything, they had grown louder and crueler, spreading like wildfire across social media. More people had joined the chorus, relatives and friends of the imprisoned men, throwing their own accusations and vitriol into the mix. She could feel it, the collective anger directed toward her, even though she hadn't seen a word of it in days.

She had turned off her phone after the first wave of posts, unable to bear the sight of another notification, another insult. The hatred in those words had felt like a physical blow, each comment a dagger twisting deeper into her already fragile state. Before disconnecting completely, she'd sent out one last message, a simple, hollow text to Leah and her closest friends: "I'm fine. Turning off my phone for a while."

It was a lie, of course. She wasn't fine, not even close. But she needed the world to think she was. She needed Leah to think she was, because the moment she let her guard down, the moment she heard Leah's voice, she knew it would all come crashing down again. She wouldn't just break—she would shatter, and right now, she couldn't afford that. Mateo needed her.

And so, the nightly calls that had been a lifeline for Leah had ceased. The promise she had made to her—the one they both held so dearly—was now broken. Aurora had tried, more than once, to muster the strength to call, to hear Leah's voice, but every time she picked up the phone, her fingers froze over the screen. She couldn't do it. She couldn't face Leah's concern, her love, not when she was so close to falling apart.

Aurora spent hours sitting in silence, the phone a dead weight in her hand, the house too quiet except for Mateo's soft breathing. She was a shell of herself, her vibrant spirit hollowed out, leaving only the fragile pieces she barely held together. Each day felt like a battle she wasn't sure she could win. She knew the people responsible for the attack were behind bars. She had Leah. She had Mateo. She had her family. But none of it seemed to matter in this moment.

She had thought it was over. She had thought she could move forward. But now, with each passing day, she felt further from that hope. And as the sun set once again, casting long shadows through the empty house, Aurora curled up in a chair, staring at her phone, feeling more lost and alone than ever before.

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Leah sat at the edge of the training field, her gaze distant as the weight of the last few days pressed hard against her chest. She'd tried to focus, to throw herself into the drills and exercises, but her body felt sluggish, her mind a thousand miles away. Each missed pass, each sloppy tackle was met with understanding glances from her teammates. They all knew. It was impossible not to. Aurora's name was plastered across every headline, every social media feed.

But Leah couldn't bring herself to care about the leeway she was being given. She wasn't worried about playing well, not when her mind was spinning with thoughts of Aurora. Her phone had felt like a lifeline these past few days, something she couldn't be without, yet every call to Aurora rang out into nothing. No answers, no return calls. Every time it went to voicemail, Leah's heart sank a little deeper.

The day her mum went over was supposed to bring some peace, but instead, Amanda's update had only made things worse. Aurora had withdrawn, putting on a brave face, but Leah could see through it. She'd received the text Aurora sent to her and their close friends: "I'm fine. Turning my phone off for a while." But Leah knew her too well to believe it. If Aurora were truly fine, she wouldn't have broken their nightly ritual of phone calls. It had become their thing—a few minutes of hearing each other's voice to end the day. That was what stung the most. Aurora didn't call, and that was all Leah needed to know that something was deeply wrong.

Frustration bubbled up inside her, not at Aurora, never at her, but at the people who wouldn't let her heal. The vile posts from strangers, the baseless accusations from people who didn't know a thing about what happened, and worst of all, the girlfriend of the man who had attacked Aurora, leading the charge. Leah clenched her fists just thinking about it. She wanted to scream at the injustice, at the cruelty of it all. But there was nothing she could do from here.

And then there were the men responsible—the ones who had already done enough damage, the ones who had left Aurora broken, who had nearly taken everything from her. Leah's anger towards them was a steady burn, simmering just beneath the surface. How could people not see? How could they twist the truth so much that Aurora, the victim, was now the one being vilified?

A whistle blew, pulling Leah from her thoughts. Another drill, another opportunity to pretend like she was still present, still a part of this world. She jogged half-heartedly into formation, her movements stiff and uncoordinated. Even Lucy, who was usually the first to bark out corrections, just gave her a nod, silently telling her it was okay. They all knew what was happening, and part of Leah was relieved. It gave her space to just... exist in this limbo, waiting for Aurora to come back to her, waiting for some kind of sign that she was okay.

She was glad, in some twisted way, that Aurora had turned her phone off. At least she wasn't seeing the hate being spewed at her. The vicious attacks were growing uglier by the day, and Leah thanked whatever force in the universe that had given Aurora the strength to block it all out. But the longer she went without hearing from her, the deeper Leah's worry grew. She could picture Aurora, sitting alone in the house, trying to keep it together for Mateo, and it broke her heart.

Leah missed her. She missed her voice, her warmth. She needed to hear her say she was okay—truly okay, not the surface-level lies she told the world.

For now, all Leah could do was wait, try to keep herself together, and hope that when Aurora was ready, she'd reach out. But every second of silence felt like another layer of fear settling over her heart.