Page 20 of Creeping Lily
And looking at her — at the life she’s been caged in — I can’t help thinking the same thing:
The poor woman never stood a chance.
10
LILY
Isit cross-legged on the bed, folding a T-shirt with slow, deliberate movements. The cotton is cool between my fingers, the creases sharp from the iron. The faint scent of fresh detergent clings to the fabric, but it doesn’t quite drown out the sweet cloud of Bethany’s vanilla body spray drifting through the air. The mix feels… off. Like the two scents don’t belong together. Like I don’t belong here.
This room isn’t fully mine.
Grandma Jo had been the one to push for it — telling my mom it was time for me to step away from home, to see what life looked like beyond our cramped little town. My mom agreed in words, but I could see in her eyes that every part of her wanted to keep me close. Then the scholarship came — full ride to Colt University — and there was no turning back. Even as she hugged me goodbye, I could feel the silent plea in her arms.
Stay.
But I didn’t stay.
Seven hours later, I was standing here — at one of the most prestigious universities in the state — holding a map of the campus and the promise of a degree that might finally crack thelock on my life. Journalism. Freedom, if I could just make it through.
The dorm smells like sunlight under Bethany’s perfume. It’s a half-and-half kind of place: my side, ordered and clean; her side, a wild storm. She’s blonde, loud, and electric — a walking hurricane who’s decided it’s her mission tofixme. I never asked her to. I don’t think she even knows what she’s trying to fix.
“You’re humming again,” she says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I blink up at her. “Hmm?”
“You were humming,” she repeats, tilting her head, green eyes sharp but curious.
“Sorry,” I murmur, folding the shirt just so, lining it up on the shelf until it’s perfect.
“You’re a strange one,” she says with a grin. “Quirky, but strange.”
I just shrug. Bethany doesn’t need encouragement — she talks enough for both of us.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks, her voice softening.
She’s been trying to get under my skin since I moved in, picking at the edges of the walls I’ve built. She doesn’t understand those walls aren’t coming down. Not for her. Not for anyone.
“Nothing,” I say with a tight smile.
She studies me a second longer, then steps close enough to put a hand on my arm.
“It’s not nothing. That humming you do… it’s like you’re holding something in. Like you’re going to burst if you stop.”
Her words hit a little too close to home, so I shrug again. “I have adjustment issues.”
Adjusting feels impossible. Her side of the room looks like a magazine rack exploded — glossy covers, tangled clothes, makeup scattered across every surface. My side is an island ofcalm. Neat lines. Folded clothes. Everything where it belongs. It’s the only way I can breathe.
“Lily, you’re doing it again,” Bethany says.
I hadn’t even noticed the low hum in my throat. “Sorry,” I mutter again, turning away.
She lets out a sigh, then flops onto her bed, phone in hand. I focus on my shelf. The quiet between us isn’t really quiet — Bethany’s energy fills the space, even when she’s silent — but at least she’s not asking more questions.
When I left home, I thought distance would make it easier. That I could leave behind the weight in my mother’s eyes and the shadows of what happened. But the truth is, miles don’t matter. Memories travel light. They’re here with me — in the tight pull across my chest, in the hum I don’t even realize I’m making.
I fold another shirt, pressing the lines flat. Like maybe if I get it perfect, the thoughts won’t spill out. But they do. They always do.
Memories of the Walkers.
