Fire Burning

Too Late To Save Me

It had been months—though I’d stopped measuring time a long time ago. Days no longer came in sunrises and sunsets, just in dull gray repetitions. Time slid past me like fog, heavy and slow, swallowing whatever remained of the girl I used to be. Somewhere along the way, I stopped resisting the slide. Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to be anyone but who Riley told me to be.

I didn’t wear makeup anymore. My vanity had long been cleared—no gloss-stained tubes, no half-sharpened eyeliner, no mirror I dared to look into for more than a second. I used to wear fitted jeans and boots that clicked against the hallway floors. Now I hid behind oversized hoodies, long sleeves, and pants a size too big. Not because I was cold, but because I had too much to cover. My reflection wasn’t mine anymore. Just a pale blur of who I had been.

Riley’s grip was extra tight that morning, fingers threading through mine with tension, not warmth. His thumb tapped against my knuckles in a rhythm I’d learned to recognize—restless, irritated, waiting for me to make the wrong move. He hadn’t spoken much on the way to school, just a clipped comment about the shirt I was wearing being too tight, followed by silence that stretched into a noose.

I didn’t laugh anymore. I didn’t smile. I barely looked at people when I passed them in the halls. Riley didn’t like that kind of attention. And the more I gave up, the more peaceful the day stayed.

But that peace never lasted long.

We were halfway down the hallway after lunch when a guy I didn’t know—some junior in a letterman jacket—walked by and said “hey.” Nothing flirty. Just casual. Barely a syllable. I didn’t smile. I didn’t even acknowledge it.

But Riley saw.

His hand locked tighter around mine, and without a word, he yanked me hard and fast into the narrow hallway beside the stairwell. The moment we were alone, his free hand slammed into the wall beside my head, his body pinning mine into the cinderblock behind me. His breath came fast. So did his words.

“What the fuck was that?”

My pulse throbbed against my skin. I stared at him, wide-eyed, too stunned to speak. “I didn’t do anything,” I managed, my voice fragile.

“You looked at him.”

“No, I didn’t—”

“You fucking looked at him,” he snapped. His voice sharpened into something I used to flinch from, but now I barely reacted. I didn’t flinch anymore. I froze. That was the difference.

His palm hit the wall again, a fraction away from my face. I blinked hard. His eyes lit up—not with lust, not with affection—but something territorial. Something cruel.

“I don’t like people thinking they can touch what’s mine.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered again, though the words sounded smaller every time I said them.

“You never do anything.” His lip curled. “You just make me insane.”

His hand moved before I could stop it.

One second I was standing, breathing, hoping it would pass. The next, his fingers wrapped around my throat. There was no softness, no illusion of love in his grip. Just pressure. Deliberate, cutting, humiliating pressure.

My back slammed against the wall. My vision blurred around the edges. I clawed at his wrist, instinct and fear kicking in too late. His face hovered inches from mine, and I could smell the cologne he knew I liked. The scent made me sick.

“You don’t get to make me look like a fool,” he growled into my ear. “Not you.”

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. Air. Panic. Nothing.