Page 9 of Sins of the Hidden

The automatic doors slid open with a hiss, and the parking lot's cold air hit my face like a slap, momentarily shocking my lungs into working again.

I collapsed into the driver's seat, leather sticking to my skin as I fell apart. The tears came hard and fast now, blurring the world until everything looked wrong. My fists pounded against the steering wheel, every strike a cry for something else—anything but this disgust I couldn't dig out of.

The medical building loomed through the windshield, its windows reflecting a warped version of me.

"Why can't I just be normal?" The words bounced off the windshield, coming back to mock me with my broken voice. "Why can't I just love myself?"

But self-love felt like something everyone else got a head start on while I was still learning how to hide.

I was so tired of trying.

My phone buzzed in my purse—probably Mom checking how it went. She tried so hard to protect me, to shield me from the world's cruelty with love wrapped in bubble wrap and duct tape. But she couldn't save me from myself.

Even my tears rebelled—too messy. Mascara smeared down my cheeks like stigma with a brushstroke.

Even breaking down, I still couldn't get it right.

I didn't cry in single cinematic tears. I cried in floods and wreckage, spilling past the edges I was told to stay within.

I wanted to smash the mirror. Shatter the reflection so I never have to see this face again—this traitor that smiled in family photos and cried in dressing rooms. I wanted to peel myself out of this body and leave it behind like something contagious. They say to love yourself.

But how did you love what everyone else hated?

My throat cracked. My fists slammed against the wheel, skin burning with rage I couldn't aim anywhere. I shook like my body was trying to tear itself open. I wanted to claw off my skin and start again. Something bearable. My ribs convulsed with a sound I didn't remember making, like my soul was trying to evacuate this weight I wore like punishment.

My hand drifted down my stomach, fingertips catching on every ridge, every scar. It was not soothing—it was proof. Of failure. Of survival. Of being seen. That I'd lived. That I'd been watched. That I'd never been enough.

Through the blur of tears, I noticed someone standing at the edge of the lot, unmoving.

V.

Always there.

Of course he was.

Putting my car in park, I wiped away the last traces of tears. The bell above the door chimed as I entered Faith's salon, the scent of shampoo and warmth wrapping around me like a friend's embrace. So different from the doctor's office coldness still clinging to my skin like static.

Faith reclined in one of the sleek black chairs that still smelled faintly like expensive conditioners, eyes popping open at my entrance. Her long, dark brown hair was twisted into a messy updo that somehow looked effortlessly flawless, like everything about her. A spark flashed across her face as she took me in, but it was quickly replaced by that bright smile that made everyone feel like they mattered.

"Well hey there, stranger." The happy lilt in her voice coaxed a smile from me. She was already pulling my purse from my hands, herding me toward a free chair. Faith's energy hit like sunlight on espresso. "I've been missing my Oakley time."

"You just look forward to the treats I make you," I managed, the joke landing hollow in a throat still raw with my breakdown earlier.

"Maybe." Her lips curved into something real as she draped the cape around my shoulders. She combed gently at the nape of my neck. "But I miss my Oakley time more."

The fabric settled across me, and then she turned the chair—right into the reflection's harsh judgment. My gaze red-rimmed and raw from crying in my car, but that familiar jade green held steady.

Faith caught my eyes in the glass, concerned and softening her usual playful expression. "Those worry lines don't belong on that pretty face." Her hands were still in my hair, soft and tentative. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

I wrung the silky fabric nervously between my fingers, seeking familiar comfort in fidgeting.Have a Lil' Faithsalon had always been a safe space, one of the only spaces where judgment didn't hover in the corners. But after this morning's humiliation at the doctor's office, vulnerability felt like an open wound.

"I had a doctor's appointment," the words tasted bitter on my tongue. She combed through my hair with practiced ease, her gaze steady, filled with that quiet understanding that set her apart. She didn't rush to fill the silence, didn't offer empty comfort. She just waited, creating space for whatever I was willing to share. "I'm thinking about trying something new." The lie slipped out easier than the truth. My fingers curled tighter into the draped fabric's edge. "Maybe... maybe a workout class?"

Faith's eyes lit up, but she reined in her enthusiasm, like she knew the cost of this small step toward trust. "You know, I teach dance classes at Crystal Peak." The blades hovered like a warning as she returned to work, each stroke somehow both grounding and freeing. "Six days a week, actually. Got to make ends meet somehow without a car."

"You teach classes?" The question came out smaller than intended, my mind already racing through worst-case scenarios I couldn't unthink.

"Mmhmm." She met my eyes in the mirror again. "And before you start spinning those anxious thoughts, I can make it a private class. Just you and whoever you want to bring."

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