27. Fractured

CHAPTER 27

Fractured

ILEANA

One moment, I’m standing still; the next, I’m shoving through the crowd, heart hammering. The hallway is chaos. Bodies pressing in, laughter rising to a cacophony that scrapes against my nerves. It feels like a storm I can’t escape. Every sound is too loud, every movement too close. My chest tightens as panic claws its way up my throat.

His voice, his touch, the way his eyes saw right through me. It’s all still there, clinging to me like a second skin, a mark I can't scrub away. My shoulder collides with someone, and I mutter an apology, barely registering their reaction.

The hall twists around me, every direction blocked by people. Their faces blur together, indifferent, unaware of my panic. The walls are closing in. The crush of people leaves me gasping for air.

I need somewhere. Anywhere.

The staff restroom door appears ahead, and I push through, stepping inside before the door swings shut behind me. The silence is a shock to my overstimulated senses. My fingers clutch the cold porcelain of the sink, legs threatening to give way beneath me.

In the mirror, my reflection wavers. Not because of tears, but because I can’t look myself in the eye. His image is there instead, etched into the corners of my mind. No matter how hard I try to blink it away, it won’t leave.

I retreat into a stall before anyone comes in, locking it behind me, and drop to the floor. Knees to my chest, I press my palms against my ribs, willing my heart to slow down. It’s not working. Every breath is a fight. I feel like I’m drowning. I can’t reach the surface, and water keeps filling my lungs.

One—breathe in.

Two—breathe out.

Three—breathe in.

Four—breathe out.

The rhythm fails me, panic writhing beneath my skin, tightening its grip. My fist presses against my mouth, teeth biting into my knuckles. Everything feels like it’s shattering. I want to scream, but the sound gets caught in my throat.

I hate him. I hate that he’s gotten under my skin, that I can’t stop replaying everything.

I can still feel his touch, and it should repulse me. I want it to repulse me. My skin should crawl, but instead it burns, a searing reminder of how deep he’s gotten. How much space he’s taken up in my mind.

I hate it. I hate him .

The worst part isn’t the fear, it’s the pull. The way he looks at me, the way his focus burns. It terrifies me and … yet I’m drawn to him. I crave the intensity of his attention.

I rock back and forth, arms wrapped tight around my knees, eyes squeezed shut. The world outside fades, the minutes passing in a haze of shallow breaths and clenched fists.

I’ve never felt so alone.

A bitter laugh claws up my throat, but I swallow it down, pressing my face against my knees.

Everything is so fucking meaningless. The people, the noise, the facade of normalcy. I have nothing real. No friends. No connections. Just an illusion of safety, shattered by his presence. I was invisible until he saw me. I used to think that staying hidden kept me safe, that if I just kept my head down, no one could hurt me. But he’s proven me wrong. He’s shown me that hiding doesn’t protect me. It only makes me an easier target.

I can’t let him do this. I won’t let him win. He doesn’t get to break me.

When I finally stand, my legs are shaky, but I force them to move. The faucet runs cold, and I splash the water over my face.

When I step back out into the hallway, the noise rushes over me in a wave, but I grit my teeth, keep my head down, and push through. One foot in front of the other. Past the crowd. Through the doors. Out into the cold air.

I need to get home. It’s the only place that still feels like mine.

The cold air is a relief. It bites at my skin, cutting through the fog in my head. I focus on the school gates, on the sidewalk.

One step. Another. Away from here, away from him .

The walk home feels endless. Each car that passes sends my heart racing, every distant laugh makes my pulse jump. I keep glancing over my shoulder, convinced I’ll see him—waiting, watching, following.

My heart rate only begins to settle when I finally reach my building, the lock clicking shut behind me.

Safe. For now.

“Ileana? You’re home early. Is everything okay?” Mom’s voice comes from the kitchen.

I force a smile, and walk into the kitchen. “Yeah. Just wasn’t feeling great. Headache.”

Her eyes scan me, searching, and I shift my weight, willing myself to stay steady under her gaze.

“You do look a bit pale. Why don’t you go and lie down?”

Before I can respond, Dad steps into the doorway. “Why are you home? Did something happen?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I told you, if they try to make you participate?—”

The fear, the anxiety, the loneliness, everything boils over. “I told you. I wasn’t feeling well.”

Mom’s eyes widen, and Dad’s expression darkens. “Watch your tone.”

I bite my lip, fingers clenching into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms while I try and push down the overwhelming need to yell.

“I just need to rest.” I force the words out, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Can I please go to my room?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at me. Then he nods. “Fine. Go. But we’ll talk about this later.”

I escape to my room, shutting the door behind me. My bed beckons, but the second I lie down, his image fills my mind again.

His breath against my neck. His voice. The words he whispered.

I close my eyes, but it’s no use. He’s still there.

Warm breath against my skin, fingers brushing over my throat, my side, my ribs …

He’s tearing through my defenses, slipping past the walls I’ve built, and I don’t know how to stop it.

I don’t know if I even want to.

I roll onto my side, curling into myself. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be weak, to let him have this kind of power over me.

I want to fight him. I want to fight myself. But the memory of his touch burns, and I can’t stop myself from wanting more.