Page 99 of The Bittersweet Bond

You’re important to me! You know that!

She stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but she couldn’t type. She couldn’t answer. It felt like her body wasn’t her own anymore. Like she had lost the right to make choices.

Her body refused food. Rejected rest. Succumbed to an exhaustion so deep it felt like sinking.

And the world around her blurred, becoming nothing more than a distant hum.

__________

Christmas was a farce.

Two weeks had been just enough to build a mask—convincing enough for her family, and nearly for herself. Evin played the role she was supposed to. She smiled. She responded when spoken to. She sat through family meals, her presence accounted for, her absence unnoticed. And yet, she wasn’t really there.

Every glance from a relative made her stomach twist, an irrational fear that somehow, they knew. That they could see what had changed.

That they could tell she wasn’t— …Impossible.

Evin shoved the thought down.

She played her part, ate just enough, laughed at the right moments. Because that was what was expected. Because what choice did she have?

“Evi, can you pass the salt?” Her uncle leaned forward, not really looking at her. She reached for it, handed it over.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Her mother smiled at her, lifting her glass to her lips.

Evin wanted to nod, wanted to say something, but at that moment, a familiar scent drifted past her nose.

Cigarette smoke.

Her stomach clenched violently, bile rising in her throat. She swallowed hard, forcing the nausea back down as her throat went dry. It was faint—probably from an open window, maybe a neighbor outside. Maybe imagination. And yet, it was there.

Suddenly.

A dark room. Smoke hanging in the air. A voice saying her name, quiet, almost amused. A hand at her waist.

No.

She blinked. The dinner table was back in front of her. Her family kept talking, as if nothing had happened.

I am here. Not there.

“Evi?”

Sheflinched slightly and looked up.

Her aunt was smiling at her. “I asked how ballet is going. You were somewhere else just now.”

“Oh… good. It’s going well.” The words came too fast.

Her mother placed a hand on her arm. “You’re barely eating, sweetheart.”

“I’m just not that hungry.”

A perfect lie.

She spent most of her time in her room, staring at the ceiling, letting the minutes dissolve into nothing. Occasionally, she’d pick up her phone, scrolling mindlessly, ignoring unread messages. Even the familiar comfort of ballet felt distant, the movements automatic, detached from anything real.

And then, finally, Christmas was over. The leftovers were packed away, the gifts forgotten, and life moved on—whether she was ready or not.

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