Page 83 of Before We Were

A bang at the door pierces my despair. "Evan!" someone shouts.

Hope flickers, fragile and brief.

"Fuck off," he snarls, hand clamping over my mouth. I can't breathe. He leans close, threat dripping from every word. "Scream and I'll fucking ruin you. Tell anyone this wasn't what you wanted, and everyone will see this." His phone flashes, capturing my humiliation.

"This is going to stay between us. You keep that pretty little mouth of yours closed,” he taunts.

I manage a weak nod, a tear escaping as reality crashes down. I tell myself if I just hold my breath, maybe this nightmare will fade to black. Maybe I can pretend none of this is real. But the darkness offers no escape; he still dominates every sense.

The door bursts open. Claire's voice cuts through everything: "Nora!?"

Evan recoils, his weight suddenly gone. Air floods my lungs as I collapse inward, shaking violently. Claire yanks at him, but her fury is aimed at me. Her words slice through the chaos, pinning me down.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Claire's rage contorts her face, veins throbbing at her temples. "I can't believe you'd do this to me. You two-faced whore."

Her accusations hit like physical blows, twisting reality into a grotesque parody where I'm the villain. In this moment, I realize I'll never be the same. Something fundamental has shattered inside me.

I stumble past Evan, his sneer following me. "Frigid bitch." Each syllable cuts deeper than the last, exposing raw wounds I didn't know existed. They've broken me completely.

Some damages are too profound to ever fully heal.

Panic seizes control. My only thought—escape.

I push through the crowd, their faces a meaningless blur.

The cold night should feel refreshing on my face but instead it slaps me as I burst outside. It does nothing to clear the chaos in my head. My steps waver, the world distorted by alcohol and trauma. Calling Mom or my brother isn't an option—I'm too far gone. I collapse on the curb, sobs wracking my body. Fumbling with my phone, I scroll past Jake's name—he's at training camp—and land on Nate.

The phone rings.

I hold my breath, desperate for his voice, but a girl answers, her words slurred and tone cruel.

"Hello?"

"Is, uh... is Nate there?" My voice breaks, tears threaten to fall but I hold them back.

Her laugh cuts like glass. "Nate's busy." Music and voices blur in the background.

The rejection stings worse than a slap. "Oh, right... well could you??—"

"I said he's busy," she snaps.

"Please, it's important. I just need to talk to him." Pride abandoned, I'm begging now.

"Don't know what to tell you, sweetheart. He couldn't talk to you even if he wanted to right now." The implication is clear—too drunk or high to function.

My composure shatters completely. "Can you please tell him to call??—"

Click.

Silence swallows me whole.

In this crushing quiet, I've never felt more alone. For the first time, I truly understand what it means to have no one.

When I get homeeveryone blissfully unaware of what comes back with me. Each step upstairs feels impossible, my body and spirit equally heavy. The bathroom light flickers harshly and unforgivingly. I barely reach the sink before retching violently, my body desperate to purge the night's poison. My throat burns, but the internal stain remains. The mirror shows a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, tear-stained. There's an emptiness in those eyes now; something vital has been extinguished.

Tears fall, but I force them to stop.

I grip the sink until my knuckles turn white.

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