Untold Story

Chapter Eleven: When the Sky Fell In

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                  Trigger Warning:                      This chapter contains themes of emotional and physical abuse; please take care while reading.
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Evelyn's Pov 

I sank into the chair by my desk, the quiet hum of the city outside barely audible through the windows. The soft glow of my laptop lit up the room as I opened it and stared at the blank page for a long moment.

Dr. Jensen said that writing could help release what we hold in. That putting things into words might ease the weight, even if only a little.

So... here I am.

Today, I was reckless.

I typed the words slowly, fingers hovering after each sentence like they needed permission to keep going.

I made mistakes. Big ones. If Arya hadn’t shown up, I don’t know if I’d still be here.

I paused, the keys cooling beneath my fingertips. My hands were trembling just slightly, but enough to notice.

That’s not me. I’m not careless. I don’t throw myself into danger like that—but the story was too familiar.

Too close.

Lila’s silence... it screamed. Her fear. Her guilt. I recognized it instantly. I couldn’t turn away—because once, a long time ago... I lived that story.

And the hatred in Kieran’s eyes? I’ve seen it too—different face, different name, but the same cruel fire.

The words blurred for a second as my vision stung. I blinked, hard, and hit the period key with more force than necessary.

I leaned back in the chair, letting my head rest against the cushion, and closed my eyes.

And just like that, it all came flooding back.

The ache. The screams that weren’t always out loud. The helplessness. The fear. The feeling of being a child with no one to listen, no one to stop it, no one who knew what was happening behind the closed doors of a “nice” home.

My jaw clenched.

I thought I’d buried all of that years ago. That it was locked away tight, in some box inside me labeled ‘then, not now.’ But watching Lila today—watching her blame herself for surviving—that box cracked wide open.

I didn’t say any of this out loud. I couldn’t. But the words were here now, bleeding onto the page.

And maybe that was a start.

Before everything changed, my world was warm.

Saturday mornings smelled like pancakes—sweet and a little burnt, because Dad always added too much vanilla and forgot to watch the stove. The kitchen was spacious, but we always crammed into one corner: Dad flipping pancakes, Mom sneaking sips of coffee, me stealing chocolate chips like it was sacred tradition.