"Some people don't haunt you because they left.
They haunt you because they stayed inside your silence."
————————————————————
Aira hadn't planned to reply.
But hero fingers hovered above the keyboard for too long.
She didn't want to be cruel.
She didn't want to be kind.
She just wanted to be honest.
She'd written and erased half a dozen messages.
Typed "I'm fine, thanks," and backspaced.
Typed "Why now?" and deleted it again.
Typed nothing, because everything she wanted to say felt too much or too little.
But something inside her had shifted.
Maybe it was Ray's quiet steadiness.
Maybe it was Mae's patience.
Maybe it was finally realizing that she deserved to stop bleeding for people who never noticed the cuts.
So she texted Mira.
Not with the calmness of someone healed, but with the courage of someone still hurting who wanted to stop.
[ AIRA: ]
Hey
I don't know what you want from me
but I can't pretend like we're okay
like you didn't break something in me
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
[ MIRA: ]
I didn't mean to
I didn't know you felt that way
I thought we were just going through stuff
Aira read the reply. Her heart sank.
Still so vague. So neutral.
No responsibility. Just soft words that sounded like an apology, but weren't.
She could almost hear Mira's voice: sweet, calm, practiced.
The same voice that once said, "I'm only trying to help you grow," after making Aira cry for being "too emotional."
The same voice that said, "No one else seems to have an issue with me," after Aira tried to bring up how isolated she felt.
[ AIRA: ]
You always knew how to say things that made me feel like it was my fault
even when I was the one crying
even when I was the one apologizing for being hurt
[ AIRA: ]
and maybe you didn't mean to
but you made me doubt my worth every day
and that's not what friends do
There was no reply for a long time.
Aira put her phone down.
Her hands were shaking again—but this time, it felt different.
Like her body was reacting not out of fear, but out of release.
Like something old and heavy was finally being pulled up from where it had rooted inside her chest.
Flashback — Aira and Mira (18 years old)
It was raining. They were in a café.
Aira was crying quietly about being overwhelmed with school.
Mira had smiled and said, "I just think if you were stronger, this wouldn't be so hard for you."
Aira had nodded.
Agreed.
Apologized for being weak.
Aira didn't know why she remembered that moment now.
Maybe because it was the day she stopped asking for help.
Maybe because that was the first time she made herself small so someone else could stay comfortable.
And now, years later, she was done doing that.
Her phone buzzed again.
[ MIRA: ]
I'm sorry if I made you feel that way
I guess we both made mistakes
I hope you can forgive me someday
Aira read it twice.
Felt the apology fall flat.
It wasn't enough.
And maybe it never would be.
But she didn't need Mira's closure anymore.
She just needed her own.
[ AIRA: ]
I forgive you
but I'm not opening this door again
I deserve to be surrounded by people who don't make me question my value
I hope you grow
but I'm not the one to help you do that anymore
She hit send.
Put her phone face-down.
And for the first time in what felt like years, she breathed.
Not just air.
But space.
That night, she journaled:
"It didn't feel victorious.
It just felt…quiet.
Like I gave the pain back to the person who handed it to me."
Aira still had bad days ahead.
Still had overthinking spirals. Still had grief stitched into her bones.
But that night, she slept with her shoulders less tense.
Her heart less heavy.
Her voice a little louder inside her own mind.
And in the stillness of her room, she whispered:
"Maybe I can start over.
Not with them.
But with myself."
She wrote in her journal:
"Some people don't mean to hurt you.
They love you the way they were taught — in pieces, with strings attached.
But just because they didn't mean to doesn't mean you weren't broken."
"I'm allowed to miss her and not want her back."