Damaged Goods, A Priceless Return

t the bottom of the embankment, the cold rain washing over me, the terrifying silence my only companion. He had left me.

nothing. Only the deafening roar of my own despair. I tried to push myself up, but m

cifully,

nt radio. The world was still mostly silent. Later, I learned they were rescue workers. I had

inkillers and fitful sleep. My family sat by my bedside, their lips moving, their hands holding mine, th

cked-open door, his face pale, his eyes haunted. He tried to speak, to gesture, an unspoken plea for understandin

y parents, an elaborate excuse for his actions. They read it to

come back for me, but got lost in the storm. It was all a lie. A flimsy, t

on. When they finished, I simply ty

pts at communication. I deleted him from my social media, changed my phone number. I

supported me unconditionally. Secretly, they arranged for me to apply to a prestigious arts conservatory abroad. A

, a profound sense of liberation. I was shedding the suffocating skin of my past, ready to sculpt a

nt seat in class, at the silent stage where we once performed. He sent countless texts, emails, desperate pleas for forgiveness, e

e. He checked his phone every hour, waiting for a message that never came. He drove past my house every day, hoping for a glimpse, a sign. He rehearsed

soaked to the bone, teeth chattering,

riveway. His heart leaped. This was his

ng to my parents, her voice low and serious. And then he heard it, a terrible, crushin

s world