Page 18 of Push My Buttons
"You should be able to speak again in a few days," he'd said, his voice clinical but kind. "The damage isn't permanent."
But it was. Not physically—the scans showed everything had healed. But my voice never came back.
I rock slightly on the bed, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest. The doctors called it psychosomatic. A mind-body response to trauma. My throat remembering what my brain wants to forget.
The night my brother's hands wrapped around my neck.
I don't remember the actual attack—a small mercy my brain has granted me. Just waking up in the hospital the next day, unable to scream, unable to tell anyone what happened. By then, he was already gone, leaving behind a trail of blood and horror that splashed my family name across headlines nationwide.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow, even breaths. The way the therapist taught me before I stopped going. Before I ran.
Straightening, I turn to plant my feet on the cool floor. The panic attack is subsiding, leaving me hollow and exhausted. I check my phone: 5:17 AM. No point trying to sleep again.
As my heart rate gradually slows, another sensation registers—a scent in the air. Something masculine and expensive. Cologne, maybe? It's faint but distinctive, tugging at my memory like a forgotten word on the tip of my tongue.
I scan the dark room, suddenly alert. The windows are locked. The door is bolted. I'm alone—I know I'm alone—but the scent feels like an intrusion. Like someone else has been here.
Maybe I'm imagining it. Paranoia mixing with nightmare residue to create phantom smells. It wouldn't be the first time.
Still, I get out of bed and check every corner of my apartment. Nothing's disturbed. Nothing's missing. The scent grows fainter, until I convince myself it was never there at all.
By the time I've showered and dressed for work, the panic has receded to a dull background hum—the kind I've learned to function with. I pull my pink hair into a messy bun, apply enough concealer to hide the shadows under my eyes, and tug on my oversized hoodie like armor.
I grab my keys and open the door, ready to face another day of forced normalcy.
My foot nearly comes down on it before I see it—a small package wrapped in matte black paper, sitting directly in front of my door.
I freeze, one hand still on the doorknob. There's no shipping label. No postmark. Just a small card attached with a single word written in silver ink: "Lilliana."
My blood turns to ice.
Lilliana.
My birth name. The one I buried. The one I haven't heard in over a year.
No one on this side of the country should know that name. No one except the handful of government officials I had to tell legally when I changed it, and I seriously doubt any of them would leave me a package at dawn.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up. It's small, lightweight. Not ticking. The paper is expensive—the kind with texture that costs more than my hourly wage. For a moment, I consider throwing it away unopened. Running back inside. Contacting the police.
But what would I inform them? That someone left me a gift? That they used a name I've tried to erase?
I tear open the wrapping with shaking hands, letting the paper fall to the floor. Inside is a small velvet box, the kind that usually holds jewelry. My stomach twists as I lift the lid.
A heart pendant gleams against black velvet. But it's not just any heart—it's intricate, crafted from gold that catches the dim hallway light. Tiny diamonds trace one edge, forming a delicate pattern that reminds me of constellations. This isn't some cheap trinket. This is the kind of gift that comes with expectations. With history.
With knowledge.
I snap the box shut, my breath coming faster. How? How does someone know that name? How did they find me? I've been so careful, so thorough in erasing every trace of Lilliana Cain from existence.
Yet here it is—proof that someone knows exactly who I am. Who I was.
I stuff the box into my bag and hurry down the stairs, checking over my shoulder every few steps. The street outside is just waking up, early commuters shuffling toward bus stops, a few cars rolling past. Nothing suspicious. No one watching.
But someone is. Someone has been.
I walk faster than usual, taking a different route to work. My usual path feels too predictable now, too easily anticipated. I cut through an alley, circle around a small park, double back once to make sure I'm not being followed.
I'm so lost in my spiraling thoughts that I almost collide with someone turning the corner.
