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Chapter 24 - 24

I don't remember the car ride.

Just the smell of leather. The soft click of the door as Luca opened it. The way his voice stayed low — like anything louder might break me completely.

"My dad's driver will take you home. He won't ask questions."

I think I nodded.

Or maybe I didn't. I was too busy trying not to breathe through my nose, where the smell of rotten mango clung to my skin like punishment.

I don't remember the driver's name. I don't remember his face. I just remember the world moving past the windows like it didn't know what happened to me.

Or maybe it didn't care.

By the time I reach my front door, my hoodie is stiff and sweet with pulp. The bird wing is gone, but the ghost of it lingers — a phantom brush on my cheek every time the wind shifts.

I stand in the hallway and stare at the mirror.

I don't see a girl.

I see a target.

A joke.

A mouth they tried to sew shut with fruit and feathers and shame.

I peel off my hoodie slowly, carefully, like it's a second skin I never asked for. In the bathroom, I scrub my arms raw. My neck. My face. I dig under my nails and watch red swirl into the drain like an answer.

But the smell doesn't leave.

It's in my throat.

Behind my eyes.

Beneath my ribs.

I try to draw.

Open my sketchbook and flip past pages of wings and whispered girls.

But my hand won't move.

Every time the pencil touches the page, I see feathers.

Dead.

Bent.

Mocked.

I drop the pencil. It clatters across the floor like a betrayal.

There's a feather stuck to my sock.

Just a tiny one.

Probably nothing.

Still, I scream.

I rip the sock off and throw it. My whole body shakes. My chest caves in. I press my hands to my mouth because the sob tries to claw its way out like it's angry I've kept it caged this long.

I curl on the floor.

Not the bed.

Not the couch.

Just the floor.

Because it's solid and quiet and it doesn't ask me to explain anything.

I hear the door open.

Tiny voices.

Auggie. Bear.

They're home early.

I want to hide. I want to erase myself from the house, from the planet, from every hallway lined with faces that laughed when I froze.

But they find me anyway.

In the hallway.

Curled up in yesterday's pain.

Bear kneels first. Doesn't speak. Just rests his hand on my shoulder.

Auggie crawls into my lap and wraps his arms around my waist. "Senny?" he whispers.

"I'm okay," I lie.

He looks up. "Why are you crying like that, then?"

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Just air. Just trembles.

But they wait.

They always do.

So I say it.

Quiet.

Flat.

"The kids at school… they poured things on me. Mangoes. Trash. A bird wing."

Their faces twist. Horror. Confusion. Rage.

Bear's eyes narrow. "Did Luca see?"

"No."

"Did the teachers help?"

"No."

Auggie clings tighter. "Do you want me to fight them?"

That almost makes me laugh. Almost.

"I just wanted to disappear," I whisper. "And they made it worse."

Bear presses his forehead to my shoulder. "You don't have to. You already came back, and we're here always."

We sit like that.

Me and my little monsters.

My brothers.

My gravity.

And for the first time since the fruit hit, since the laughter swallowed me, since silence strangled my throat — I let the sob out.

It's ugly.

It's loud.

It splits me open.

And they hold me anyway.

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