Who We Were

Chapter Two

Rose

Thirteen metaphors later, I found myself sitting across from Willa in the lunch hall, glaring at my untouched tray of food. Despite our best efforts to keep count, Miss Prescott had wrapped up the lesson two metaphors short, leaving me without the satisfaction of being £20 richer.

Willa, on the other hand, looked positively smug as she took a bite of her sandwich. "Told you not to gamble," she teased, her eyes dancing with amusement. "You were so close, though. I almost thought you had it."

I stabbed a fork into my pasta and shot her a glare. "I would have made it if you didn't ask so many homework questions."

Willa shrugged nonchalantly and looked over my shoulder, her lips curling into an amused smile. "Call it intuition, but I had a feeling Miss P wanted to be elsewhere."

I frowned, following her gaze to see what had caught her attention. At the far end of the hall, in line for the various food vendors, Miss Prescott stood talking animatedly to our math teacher, Mr. Evans. Her body language was practically buzzing, hands moving expressively as she spoke, her face lit up in a way that was far too enthusiastic for just a casual lunchtime chat.

"He's married," I stated, my tone harsher than intended.

Willa glanced at me; eyebrows raised. "How do you know this?"

I shrugged, still watching the two teachers, Miss Prescott's animated gestures and Mr. Evans's easy smile. "Saw him at the Christmas fair last year in Thornwood. He was there with his wife and kids—looked like the perfect family, all matching sweaters and smiles. Hard to forget."

It really was.

My stomach flipped at the memory of being there, watching them and feeling – complicated. Feeling way more than a sixteen-year-old should have to feel. Seeing Mr. Evans and his family, so happy, so perfect, at a time when everything was supposed to be cheerful, when everyone around me was filled with warmth and joy. I should've felt the same. I should've felt something good. But I didn't.

Stop

I felt empty. No, not just empty—broken, like a piece of me was missing, or maybe shattered into so many pieces I couldn't find a way to put them back together. Lost, like I was drifting through that bright, festive scene without really being there at all.

Stop. Please, just stop.

But the memory kept coming, pressing in, forcing me to confront that awful, gnawing feeling. Lonely. So fucking lonely. Like I was on the outside looking in, drowning in a sea of laughter and smiles that had nothing to do with me.

Stop.

I didn't want to feel it, didn't want to remember how I had stood there, choking on air that felt too thick, too heavy. How every breath was a struggle, how the colours and lights blurred around me, like I was seeing everything from underwater. I was supposed to be buying Tommy's Christmas present, something funny that he would enjoy. Yet, I had wondered around like a lost puppy feeling like I was drowning alone with no lifeboat in sight. I just wanted. . . I just . . . I

A sharp pain blisters through my hand, and I am yanked out of my thoughts. I look down, choking on air that refuses to fill my lungs. In my right hand, clutched in white knuckles is my fork now dripping with blood. I don't need to look much further because I know before I look that my left hand has four tiny holes which are now spilling with my own blood.

Damn it.

The sight of the blood—bright, stark against the pale of my hand—somehow brings me back to the present. I force myself to breathe, my chest aching as I take a shaky gulp of air. I've been gripping the fork so tightly, pressing it down without realizing, my own stupid anxiety turning into something physical, something real.