"Between friends, unspoken feelings can feel like a fragile thread pulled taut; one denies its existence while the other hides behind its delicate weave, both yearning for the courage to unravel what lies beneath."
Ian and Julian, long-time best fri...
"I miss the god complex english class gave me" ~Margaret
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In the grand scheme of this story—my story—you might think I hardly matter. That's what they think, what they want me to think. But here's the thing: I've decided it's worth voicing anyway. Whether they listen or not doesn't matter.
The cold air bit at my skin, but I barely noticed. Pain was nothing new; neither was feeling like an afterthought in my own life. I stood there, motionless, letting the chill seep into my bones. The only warmth I could feel was the fire of anger and resentment smoldering beneath my calm exterior.
People love to play the part of savior when they're really just puppeteers. My parents? Masters of the craft. The dutiful daughter they'd molded me into—polished and poised—had served them well, until I became an inconvenience. The moment the truth surfaced, they turned clinical, stripping me of autonomy like it was their God-given right. And of course, they made it look seamless, noble even.
Their solution was as clean and bloodless as they were: exile me to some French village where no one knew my name or my shame, and wait. I'd serve my sentence in silence, hand over the baby like a prisoner surrendering contraband, and fade into obscurity. It was an elegant plan, one that preserved their reputation and left me hollowed out, discarded like a chess piece no longer useful to the game.
I hated them for their efficiency, their arrogance. For thinking I'd go along with it. But I hated myself even more for letting them push me this far. I should've fought harder, sooner, but I played the role too well. I smiled when they tightened the leash. I complied when they stripped me of choices.
Not anymore.
Their perfect plan hinged on one thing: my obedience. They'd spent years cultivating it, sharpening it into a weapon they could wield against me. But they underestimated me. That was their first mistake.
I wasn't their puppet anymore.
I wouldn't be anyone's tool—mother, daughter, or otherwise. The life they tried to script for me was over. They wanted me to carry their secret, but I'd carry nothing for them. Not a baby, not guilt, not the weight of their expectations.
The cold bit harder now, but I welcomed it. It sharpened my mind, brought me back to the present. This was my choice, my moment to rewrite the narrative. No one else's.
And when they realized what I'd done—when they found out I was gone, untethered from their control—I hoped it stung. I hoped it burned them to the core. Because the girl they thought they owned had slipped through their fingers.
I laughed, cold and hollow, as Alex finished fueling the car. They would never understand, never grasp the depth of how wrong this all was. Control? I'd never had any. My life had been a masterclass in perfection masquerading as imprisonment. The dutiful daughter in the gilded cage—obedient, silent, flawless. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect behavior. Anything less? Punished. Starved of affection. Cut off from friends. Stripped of autonomy.
