55 | Left In The Dust

LUNES

4:48 AM

Dahlia Gray

I couldn't sleep.

After settling at the park bench and telling Harlow everything that has happened during our time apart, including the event that led to our rekindling—safe to say, Harlow was furious.

I've never seen such aggression seep through his blue eyes and the sudden insatiable need to take action. He jumped from his seat, despite exhaustion humming in his bones, and was ready and armed to lead straight to my childhood home and give my father a piece of his mind.

It took absolutely everything in me to hold him back.

I didn't want Harlow to do everything for me. He always tries to fight my battles for me, and I'm coming to terms that that's not what I want. I want to be able to make the final decision, to make the call, because I finally know where I stand. It's a harsh reality ahead, but it's a reality I'm prepared for.

...One day.

After our midnight conversation seeped into the next day, Harlow decided to take me to his house. I'm going to be staying with his family until I muster up my final load of courage to face my father. That, and Harlow's absolute refusal to let me return home. He doesn't trust what could happen next, especially with my father's heated condition, and to say I disagree with him is a total lie.

But he forgets I have my mother to worry about.

When he took me back to his home, he immediately made a ruckus entering into the dimly-lit house since it was bordering three am. Familiar faces spawn behind opened doors, with droopy eyes and a what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-up expression. I tried to apologize with the look on my face, but they paid no attention to me.

Just the boy beside me.

He told them that he needed Presley, and he dashed up the stairs before anyone got the opportunity to object. I was left standing in the foyer, awkwardly hanging as my eyes took an interest in the decorations that surrounded the house. Nini was the first person who approached me.

Her dyed blonde hair has grown from the roots and dark, jet-black hair is seen underneath. She fits in her nightgown and a long, woolly robe, eyes met with a soft and sympathetic gaze despite sleep eating away into the creases of her eyes.

"What's wrong?" She had asked me, a warm hand attempts to touch the braze of my shoulder to show that she was safe and she wasn't going to hurt me, but I can't lie and say that I didn't flinch when she made the approach. She noticed, the lock on her eyes melted into a gradual realization that pools in immense concern.

She didn't say anything for a good few seconds, as ruckus continues to channel through the second floor, bickering being played between the two. Nini watches me with a scrutiny gaze, until she asks to pull me towards the kitchen and sits me down at the breakfast table before offering a drink. I asked for tea.

Once she made a cup for herself and me, she slid the mug across the table and I told little sips, my throat calling for thirst after hours of talking to Harlow. We sat in a wagering silence, thick but not completely uncomfortable, and Nini folded her legs over the over as she waited for Harlow and Presley to follow down the stairs.

But they didn't. Not quick enough, at least.

"What happened?" She asked once more, her eyes pooled into me and whispered with one look. You can trust me, they said, I won't hurt you.

Had she asked me another day, a couple of months ago, where I was shamefully hiding the conditions of my home behind closed doors and minimizing my pain with gentle smiles and little communication, I would've said no. I would've lied between my gritted teeth but today was different. Today was a tipping point, and I was finally ready to spill.

Whatever that may hold.

It started slow; I built my speech in little moments that concludes to where we are now. I told about what's going on at home, how emotionally abusive my father has been since he returned from the army, and finishing with an introduction into his physical violence.

Nini listened with opened ears, her eyes widened at my little recounts before tears began to brim her eyes and she had to use the hem of her robe to wipe away her cries. She kept mumbling over and over again, how terribly sorry she felt for me, and I nodded to take the apology. I know the intentions are nice, but I didn't need apologies—I needed change.

Harlow and Presley finally reach the ends of the steps before making their way into the kitchen, noting their crying mother, hiccups surfacing behind her throat. Harlow was the first to turn to me, a dark brow cocked at his confusion, before I mouth: my dad.

He got the context.

Presley and Harlow sat down at the breakfast table, careful not to initiate any more tears from their mother, before turning to me. Of course, we couldn't ignore the crying figure, but as she calmed, we began to discuss.

And that happened to be—with Harlow's absolute first suggestion— that I should stay here.

Nini agreed immediately, refusing to let me return home to my abusive father, as she claims to say. It was hard for me to digest that it was, in fact, abuse after all these years. And despite knowing that he was emotionally manipulating and abusing me with callous words and guilt-trips, I still can't fully and absolutely claim him as abusive.

Saying emotional abuse is one thing, but abusive single-handedly felt like a loaded word.

I was the first to argue with them.

I didn't want to impose on them and there's not a guest bedroom for me to take, was my first attempt at an excuse, before adding another, which was my mother being in the same house as my father. Harlow shut up immediately, knowing how much my mother means to me.

But they refused to budge. Presley argued that despite my mother being in the same house as my father, in this state with this context, she knows—as an unconscious abused victim—how to handle and calm him for initiating another act of violence. She could handle a couple of days. I can't.

And after a bit of nagging, I agreed.

The next situation that sits was where was I going to sleep, and while the first objective was to let me sleep in Claudia's bedroom while she's away at college—Claudia was returning home tomorrow morning, and finding a girl in her room would not be an ideal state, despite her offering me to sleep there once.

So, Harlow offered up his bed, saying he'll take the couch and I could take the bed. Since that was the only plausible suggestion that comes with little issues, Presley and Nini took it—beginning to set up the couch for Harlow to take and for me to take his.

It was nearly four am when we finished setting everything up, and I headed off to bed after showering and borrowing a long black hoodie from Harlow. Presley knocked out the minute he touched the comforter, and Nini bid me a goodnight a while back.

Now, it's just me and the ceiling.

I stare at the roof with nothing but a little imagination to go off on. I wanted to draw constellations from dots or dusts, but with the blank ceiling, I began to picture other things. Other futures.

I picture, if I had my own apartment, the first thing I would do would be to paint the ceiling with a coat of pitch black, mirroring the night sky. I would draw stars and planets that glow across the canvas in an orbit, a screenshot of the Milky Way. My fingers would spill between dried coats of paint, while decorating a safe haven of mine with another. It would be absolutely perfect.

If I had an apartment.

The hour stretches into a silence, nothing but the hums of the air conditioner and the light rustling from Presley, with him moving his sheets around and adjusting in his mattress. While I tried desperately hard to close my eyes and fall into a dreamless state, I can't help but feel the reality seeping into my bones about what the mornings would hold.

That the minute I wake up, I would be forced out of the house and carried home. The night doesn't end until I sleep, and finding sleep is terribly hard when the weight of your world rests on your shoulders.

Tomorrow morning, I would have to go home—if not for my mother, but for my materials for class—and I would have to look my father in the eyes, and apologize to him, regaining the state of guilt like everything I've done in the past twenty-four hours was a lucid dream and was nothing but a terrible overreaction of emotions.

I would feel like I was in the wrong.

And I'm so tired of feeling like that.

I couldn't sleep. It was a registered fear that sinks into my skin about the terrors of tomorrow, and I don't want to return home to face the music; of how I need to make my decision clear and final, stand my ground with a raised chin and without a stutter on my tongue. It weakens my knees to think about, and feeds into my fear—which results in me rolling in more sweats and sheets than the lambs of the night.

I check the time once more, seeing the time ticking closer and closer into five am and the stress is biting at me. I know it would be a bother, but in a reckless decision of seeking comfort, I threw off the comforter and got out of the bed, finding myself taking steps down the stairs and towards the living room where Harlow is sleeping.

He's dozed off on the couch; his head leaning against the armrest, a pillow tucked under him, and a blanket covering half of his body while his hand rests against his chest, nearing his heart.

I took in everything—the peacefulness that sweeps his features, the relaxing posture he holds, with no walls or defenses constructed into his daily routine, and how delicate and unguarded he looked. I knew it would be a mistake to wake him up just for my own selfish reasons, and as I was about to head back upstairs and attempt another round of sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, without a familiar body—my leg accidentally knocked against his foot, disrupting his sleep.

Waking him up.

I wince, standing frozen at the foot of the couch, hoping he would think I was a figment of his imagination and he would fall back asleep. His eyes hazily dance across the room before they find me, and when they do, I stand with a guilty look on my face.

"Dahlia?" He croaks drowsily, his voice low and raspy, the back of his hand rubbing against his eyes to get a better look. I release a held sigh, guilt surging through my veins about the choices I made today. I offer him a little small wave, painted with a sheepish smile on face.

"Sorry," I whisper quietly, my hands fidgeting with the hems of his hoodie. It smells slightly of him, but not enough to feel engulfed in his scent like I'm held by his arms. "I couldn't sleep, and I came downstairs but I saw you were asleep, so I was going to go back upstairs, and I didn't meant to hit you, I just—" I cut myself short, hauling a long sigh, my shoulders slouching, expression softening, "I just wanted to have you close."

And I don't know how I did it—but that made him smile.

It takes him two seconds before he makes a decision, and without another word, he opens up his blanket as an invitation for me to join him, and I smile graciously. I snuggle up against him in the narrow available space the couch offers and rest my head against his chest, hearing the hammering of his heartbeat. It thumps in my ear like the bass of a drum, and it took me a second before I realized I caused that, and the thought itself sends a tingle to my stomach.

He closes the blanket around us and wraps both arms around me, resting his chest against the top of my head and garnering warmth better than the blanket could supply.

"Are you having trouble sleeping?" He mumbles quietly into my hair, his voice gentle, before I nod my head once in answer, planting a hand on his heart as I could feel his pulse drumming from his to mine.

He doesn't say anything, sighing, before tightening his embrace around me—firm, but not suffocating. Holding me, and piecing me back together. I missed this feeling so much.

"I love you," he said into the dark, the slight doze of his voice consuming his entire body and relaxing into his posture. It was completely natural, without a second thought.

I freeze in my spot. I don't say it back or return the words as he would've wanted me to, because I couldn't quite pinpoint if I love him. I know what I feel is incredibly strong for him, and it's definitely something, but love is such a big word that my father twisted and obliterated its meaning. I don't know if I knew what love truly is.

So, I said the only thing I could be confident in. "You're my person."

And with that, the silence answers me. He ticked away and fell asleep before me, but I found myself growing tired in his arms. I don't know if it's his body pressed against mine, or the sworn level of protection he holds within his embrace, or maybe it's just the idea that Harlow could truly be it all for me—but as a yawn escapes me, and I draw circles around the cotton of his shirt, before I knew it, I fell asleep.

━━━━━

JUEVES

3:26 PM

Dahlia Gray

Current location: still taking sanction at the Soberano-Godfrey residence.

"Hold fucking still," Harlow swore through gritted teeth, his eyes train strictly onto the rawness on the side of my hand while the white gauze is pulled between his teeth. This is his third time wrapping my hand, and he still has trouble measuring out the length of the tape.

"I'm trying," I pout, struggling to hold steady with my elbow pressed against the cool of the breakfast table with no back support. It's hard keeping still with the weight of gravity holding me down—and air resistance, something I learned from physics.

"Try fucking harder," he snaps without looking at me, causing my frown to deepen. My arm laid stiff, and he pauses, realizing his mistake of using his harsh tone on me. He breaks his concentration and looks up at me, a guilty look passes his features. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say that."

"Hmm," I hum in response, keeping my response ambiguous. His eyes hold mine for a brief second, a plea of an apology, before I break and give him a loose smile. "I'm kidding. My arm hurts. Can you hurry up and finish up?"

He nods solemnly and turns back to his duties, finishing wrapping my hand. For the past couple of days, Nini has been doing the wrapping and helping me keep my hand clean. While Harlow goes to attend school throughout the day, and my bandages require me to switch out twice a day—Harlow has taken it upon himself to do the job after Nini was called straight to work for the past two days. He doesn't know what he's doing, but with pure concentration and practice, he does a pretty decent job.

When he finishes, I pull my arm back and examine my hand. The gauze covers my entire hand, making it hard to move my fingers and offers little insight on the rawness that buries beneath the bandage. I can feel the heat of Harlow's gaze watching me as I examine his work, anxiety pouring into the atmosphere.

I turn to him with a small, appreciative smile, and brighten, "thank you."

Harlow smiles, and he leans forward in his seat to hold the back of my head, kissing the hairline of my forehead. He hasn't kissed me—on the lips at least—since that night, and I still feel the slight hesitation he holds whenever he tries to initiate anything intimate with me.

Presley shoves the backdoor open and enters into the kitchen, his eyes immediately zooming in the both of us. "I know the sexual tension is high in here, but at least take it to the bedroom."

Harlow turns to his foster brother, pulling away from me, but his touch skimming across my shoulder. With a glare, "can you shut the fuck up for once in your life?"

Presley holds up both hands in surrender, a cheeky grin plaster over his lips, "I usually try to, but it's so much more fun not to."

Harlow opens his mouth, charged with a rebuttal, when I tug on his sleeve, splitting his attention. He turns to me with a lock of furrowed brows, and the first thing he checked was my hand—seeing as if I was hurt, or if the bandage unraveled under his care.

It wasn't that.

"I want to talk to you about something," I said solemnly, resulting in both boys turning their heads towards me. I hated the feeling of holding their heated gazes. It feels nerve-wrecking, and with my already lack of courage in this department, having the both of them stare back at me didn't help.

With a pregnant pause wavering in the air, and complete undivided attention laid on me, I took in a sharp breath before I muster up the courage to say: "I want to go home."

It took three seconds of tense silence before a response came.

"Absolutely not," Harlow shakes his head, pulling his hand away from me. He stands from his seat, pushing the chair in and continues shaking his head, refusing to meet my gaze, "you're not going back to that fucker's house—"

"Harlow,"

"He hit you, Dahlia." He reminds me carefully, turning to me as the words stings my ears. "I don't want you to go through that fucking mess ever again. Graduation is around the corner and you should just stay here—"

"Harlow, I can't just live in your clothes, I have to get my own."

He pouts, not finding the problem with this, "I don't understand why not, you look fucking cute in them—"

"—And it's not only that," I send him a lighthearted glare, knowing his little compliment sends a blush to my cheeks. "It's my mom. I can't just leave her there, without explanation. That woman is my entire universe, and you—out of everyone—should know this."

For the past week, I haven't been able to get in contact with her. Since I didn't bring my phone along when I ran out the door, and whenever I attempted to sneak back home, my father's BMW was parked obnoxiously straight in the driveway—and any effort of communication was fruitless.

He quiets, eyes passively holding mine with a plea but knowing he wouldn't be able to make a credible argument that could do him justice. I've spent the last week ignoring all of my responsibilities: school, my internship, and even my mother. That was the whole reason, wasn't it? The entire dilemma of what to do if I ever leave. Now the decision no longer hangs on a hypothesis, but a reality. What to do when I leave.

"If you don't mind me asking, what are you going to do?" Presley steps in, his back leaning against the counter with his arms folded against his jacket. I turn my gaze to his. "You can't just march in there, you have to have a solid plan. What are you going to do when you step out, if you step out?"

"Presley," Harlow scowls deadly, his eyes sharp on his foster brother. "Don't fucking scare her."

"I'm trying to reel in the reality of this. This is not some fucking fantasy where she can come in and demand what she wants and get out scratch-free. This is reality; he is an abusive, manipulative asshole, you think he's going to let his only daughter just leave?"

Harlow shuts his mouth, owning no argument to counter his foster brother, and neither do I. I didn't think far enough to plan this, and I think that's the true downfall of my decisions. I just knew a beeline of points to make: go home, pack some clothes, and figure everything out later.

This is the later.

"I don't know what's going to happen, but I know Dahlia going home—by herself—isn't going to be good for her." He sighs, eyes dancing between Harlow and I, as if we were triggers ready to detonate on this moment.

I pull my lips together, thoughts racing in circles, and contemplate an idea before saying: "then come with me."

"What?" The both of them respond in unison, tension weighing thick in the air.

"I said: come with me," I state firmly, settling into the suggestion. "If you're so worried about what's going to happen, come with me and help me get my things. It'll be a quick in and out, and I'll just talk to my mom before I leave."

Harlow reflects on the idea, "you're coming back here, right?"

I don't answer immediately. The hair on my arms standing at the unforeseeable future, and decisions that levitate towards me in the process. I can't keep leaning on people and expecting them to catch me. "I don't know. I might go to a hotel and book a room, or stay with Aysa, or something. I think I overstayed my welcome."

"What the fuck are you talking about? You can stay, Dahlia." Harlow said strongly, stepping a foot closer to me. He hesitates reaching out, his hand suspended in mid-air, before dropping.

I swallow hard, but the mental notions paint itself. Harlow is sleeping on the couch most of the time, Nini is going out of her way to buy medical supplies to nurture my wound, and I'm an extra mouth to feed and an additional luggage to carry. I feel terrible, knowing I don't know how to contribute or return the favor.

"I don't know."

Harlow doesn't respond. While he looks like he wants to continue this conversation, exchange the doubts I carry in my head and finish to a definitive conclusion, he doesn't pry on the matter. Instead, he dips his head lowly, before turning to Presley. "You coming?"

"I don't know, I have to ask mom," Presley muses, resulting in a glare from Harlow. The raven-haired boy breaks out into a grin, "nah, I'm just playing. Do you think I could say no? This is your girlfriend we're talking about—of course I'm going." Presley winks at me, and while the situation remains serious, I couldn't hide the small smile threatening to slip through.

"Alright, let's go." Harlow nods, taking my hand in his and pulling me towards the foyer, exiting out of the front door. He doesn't bother correcting Presley's casual branding of our relationship, and with that in the back of my head, I'm reminded of how much our relationship has shifted since that night.

Harlow leads us to the iconic Mustang, and for the first time, the both of us are pushed into the backseat.  Since Presley is the reserved owner of the vehicle, he enlisted himself to drive, and Harlow refused to leave my side—taking the back instead of the passenger seat.

It was a quick drive to my house, a couple of minutes at most, and as the outline of the house begins to fade into existence, my heart tramples as we gain closer and closer to the street.

The BMW isn't there, thankfully, and the stillness of the home still hung even from the distance. I could feel the hair on my neck standing up, as if I'm moments from setting into a haunted house that resembles too much like my childhood home. The home that I grew, loved, and laughed in.

It was also where I hurt.

Presley parks on the side of the curb. When we step out of the vehicle, onlooking the house that seems disproportionately larger than what it's supposed to, anxiety pulses through my veins like shots of liquor. My skin burns all around me, and the throb of the slap comes back to me in waves. I wince, recognizing I am still vulnerable to the charge of his violence even in the phantom of his presence, and that thought itself makes me want to crawl back into the backseat and drive away.

I wiggle out of Harlow's grip, and wrap both arms around his one arm, burying myself into his shoulder. If I don't think about it enough, it doesn't hurt. That's what I've been mostly doing in the Soberano-Godfrey residence, distracting myself with miscellaneous things to do and forget what happened to me. It works.

But I can't ignore my problems, and that's when it comes back to bite me. The second I stepped onto the sidewalk, overlooking the home that was once engulfed with unconditional love and happiness, I'm knocked back with everything I tried hard to suppress. I'm knocked back with everything I've tried so hard to suppress.

My eyes prick with tears, damping the sleeve of Harlow's hoodie, and I could feel myself losing breath. I gasp underneath the fabric, trying to control myself and burying myself deeper into fear. I could feel Harlow slipping under me, his hand steadying the back of my head.

"Hey," He mumbles into the crown of my hair, "if you're not ready, we can go back to the house. You don't have to do this now."

I know.

But I will always be afraid, I will always have these memories, and nothing could wash them away. I've made my existence on the brink of survival, and I'm tired of suffocating under the weight of my decisions. It's now or never.

I peel back and face the house, sliding a hand over my heart and reminding myself to breath. My fingers capture the pulse of my hammering heart under my ribcage, and it thumps three times for me to recognize two words.

I'm alive.

I take the first step forward, reaching the porch with the boys following beside me. My eyes search around the floor for the hidden key, and find it buried underneath an unbalanced plank. Unlocking the door, and pushing it open, the soft blow of the air conditioner greets us.

Presley and Harlow are about to take the first steps in—when I hold out my hands and turn to them, a heaviness sits on my chest. "Let me handle it."

And I didn't need to go into explanation of what I needed to face. Let me handle it—let me talk, let me be the person who faces off my father, let me be my own voice.

And they nod, agreeing to my terms before stepping inside. Presley was the first to enter, his eyes dancing around the house and taking in the relatively normal household that witnessed a thousand of abuse. He heads upstairs once I tell him where my bedroom is, and as his steps echo against the hardwood floor, I turn to Harlow as he watches me—waiting for me to make the first move.

My eyes pouring in his, his reading mine, and I say softly. "Please don't let him touch me."

He throws his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close and kissing the side of my temple. "I won't even let him fucking try."

We reach upstairs to find Presley admiring my bedroom, his eyes skimming the stale colors of baby blue walls and little decorations. "So this," he meets my gaze, putting down a small decorative toy I receive as a child, "this is who Dahlia Gray is."

I look around the room once, before shaking my head, "not in the slightest."

He chuckles and we begin packing. I find a duffel bag in the back of my closet and ask the boys to take as many clothes off the hangers as possible and throw them in. While I went to grab my underwear and bras, I could hear the two bickering in the background about what type of clothes I typically wear and if I could coordinate outfits with the given options.

While they handle that, I took the objective to start grabbing what I needed for school. I could buy my clothes again, if necessary, but I couldn't buy my laptop with all my loaded documents, or my phone with my contacts and precious information, or my textbooks that have my scribbles for the classes I needed to graduate or my inhalers. I needed all of them.

I step in front of my desk, about to grab my laptop, when my body instantly freezes. What laid on top of my MacBook was an enclosed, plastic box with a slice of red velvet cake.

Just like he always brought me.

The stillness in the air holds, and while the boys were finishing up their tasks, I couldn't bear to move a muscle or touch the box.

My favorite as a child.

It became a custom for me to receive a box of red velvet cake whenever he was in the wrong, and I've always accepted it as some form of apology when it wasn't. It was never. It was a tactic of gaslighting to make me feel as if I'm in the wrong, and I should forgive him because he went through the lengths of remembering my favorite flavor and going out to buy it.

But the price of a $3.15 cake is worth nothing compared to the trauma of a four year discrepancy.

I swallow hard as I stare at the dessert, knowing in my stomach that I want to forgive him. That it'll be easier to take a bite than swallow the decision of a change.

But, I don't.

I pick up the box in my palm, examining it from all four sides. It carries a lot, in a tiny container, but as I grit my teeth, I pull out the bin from underneath my desk and drop it in the trash. Gone. Forever.

No forgiveness.

I went back to packing, and when we finished, about thirty minutes later, resolved from all the frantic search parties of what I needed to bring with me and throwing clothes across the room, we got ready to leave.

I checked the window, for my father's car, and finding none, I knew I needed to use this time to find my mother and talk to her. I didn't know what I was going to say—there was no premade script, just pure feelings—but I knew it was necessary.

Presley and Harlow were finishing up shoving as many things they needed inside my duffel bag, so I went to my mother's bedroom to search for her.

When I kicked open the door, I found it desolate and empty, save for wrinkle sheets—which is uncommon for her—and a heavy stillness that fills the room. It is almost if all the tears she shed in the room resonate within the vibration of the walls, and the moment I stepped in, I could feel them echoing off.

"Mami!" I shout, once exiting, my voice bouncing off the hollow walls and entering into every room that fills space. I lean against the railing of the second floor, that separates me and a thirty feet drop, and my eyes examine the empty flooring. "Mami!"

"Dahlia?" I hear her chime in response, low and almost inaudible, which confirms that she has been in the kitchen, hiding away from my father and possibly us—thinking he has returned home from work.

I turn to the guys who were standing at the foot of my room, with Harlow carrying the duffel bag over his shoulder and Presley carrying my textbooks and school backpack over his. I know time is ticking, and it will be soon before my father returns home from his job, but I need to talk to my mother.

I race down the steps, taking two at a time, ready to head to the kitchen, and as I was about to touch the floorboard of the foyer and make a turn around the newel post—the lock disengages and the door swings open.

My heart stops.

Clayton Gray steps into the house, head hung low for a brief second as he reels in his shift, before turning up to see me at the foot of the stairs, with two trailing boys right behind me.

I could feel my legs wobbling at the sight of him, knees buckling, sweat glands activating, and every flight-or-fight response coursing through my veins like electricity. But I couldn't move. I could say anything. I thought I prepared myself for this encounter, but faced with the man who hurt me, who slapped me—who emotionally abused and manipulated me for years—I was rendered speechless.

"¿Adónde crees que vas?" Where do you think you're going? My father asks in Spanish, his voice compose and neutral as he eyes the two boys behind me, recognizing Harlow immediately and a look of distaste crosses his features. "No seas estúpida, Dahlia." Don't be fucking stupid, Dahlia.

Stupid. I've been called that on several occasions, and I remember each delivery hitting me like bullets. I wish Presley and Harlow could understand, recognize and see him as I finally do—but then, I forgot that they already do. They do, and they understand, and they know.

Because I told them.

My chest constricts and forms a blockage for oxygen and I wish I could open my mouth to scream for my inhaler, but I remain rooted to the floor, jaw closed and tongue held down. Just like I've always been.

I hear the kitchen door swing open, small footsteps echoing down the hallway and approaching the scene. I register that it was  my mother before I turn my head, but there's nothing that escapes my mouth at all the things I wanted to say to her. It's now on him.

I inhale and exhale, allowing the flow of oxygen to enter and leave my system. "I...Me voy." I'm leaving.

My father is stunned. He doesn't say anything for the first couple of seconds, registering the ridiculous proposal, before he bursts out laughing. A smile catches his cheeks, his hand resting against the brown uniform, and he releases a hearty laugh. Like this is a joke, like I can't be serious.

I won't lie and say it wasn't disheartening to hear—to not be taken seriously, to play off everything I mean with my heart as a joke. I wanted to crawl back into a hole and just leave without delivering my final message, but, as my energy dissipates in me, I could feel Harlow placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, an act of moral support, and a will to progress.

"Me voy." I'm leaving. I said again, my voice boasting with seeping courage. "Me voy, y nunca volveré." I'm leaving, and I'm never coming back.

He scoffs, patronization crowds and shapes his expression. "¿Adónde vas a ir, Dahlia? ¿Con qué dinero? ¿Cómo vas a sobrevivir en el mundo? ¿Sabes lo difícil que es ser adulto?" Where you going to go, Dahlia? With what money? How are you going to survive out in the world? Do you know how hard being an adult truly is?

I survived four years with you, I thought. I've learnt more than a child ever needed to.

I tilt my chin upwards, wavering in false confidence. I hope he doesn't know how to differentiate. "I'll manage. I'm leaving."

He scoffs, but he can see the absolute that shines behind my eyes. That, despite the confidence that lacks in my slumping shoulders, or the cracks in my voice when I deliver my lines—I was set on what I said.

"Eres una niña, Dahlia." You're a child, Dahlia. He states, to which I finally recognize at his act of belittling me, obtaining the upper hand as the patriarch. "No lo entenderás. No hagas nada estúpido y baja tus maletas. Podemos hablar de esto." You won't understand. Don't do anything stupid and set your bags down. We can talk about this.

I hear Harlow scoffing behind me, which made me think he could understand what my father was doing. That would be impossible, I found myself countering, he doesn't know Spanish.

"No quiero hablar. Quiero irme. Me voy, y no hay nada que puedas hacer para detenerme." I don't want to talk. I want to leave. I'm going, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.

It's that word: nothing, which meant he had no leverage over me. He holds no omnipotent power over my head, and he absolutely hates it. Rage fills his eyes quicker than his sympathy ever did, and his jaw locks in a tight grit.

"¿En serio te vas por una pequeña discusión? Dahlia, me faltaste el respeto. Soy tu padre, y cuando entraste a mi casa como si fueras la dueña y me hablaste como si fueras tú el adulto, por supuesto que me iba a molestar. ¿Sabes lo dolido que me sentí?" Are you seriously leaving over a petty argument? Dahlia, you disrespected me. I'm your father, and when you came into my house like you owned it and spoke to me like the adult, of course I would feel upset. Do you know how fucking hurt I felt? He points to himself, hurt flashes through his features as he gathers all the context he saw for himself. I guess he could picture and frame such a conclusion, but that won't invalidate mine. I have to recognize that.

What about my hurt?

"Me voy." I'm leaving.

I don't have to explain myself. For what—for who? Do I truly care? It's obvious that he perceives the situation however he wants to, morphing it to draw out the conclusion that I was the one at fault and he was the true victim. I can't change his mind, but I wouldn't listen to him. I refuse to. He'll only make me question myself, and apologize, and succumb to a cycle of hiccups and tears, of invalidating and isolation. I refuse to be that person again.

He looks at me, baffled written on his expression at my decision to object to his chance to gaslight. I learned that term the other night, manically researching emotional abuse and wondering if I checked all the boxes.

I did.

His jaw drops and he searches my eyes, pleading with me. I won't lie and say I didn't feel a dose of guilt pooling inside of me, seeing how hurt he is, but I held my ground, I pushed myself up, and I refused.

Fury burns through him in an instant, and his gaze turns to the boys behind me, pinned on Harlow. "You," he points to him, his voice growing louder and aggressive, "you did this. This is all your fucking fault—"

He charges forward, up the steps, attempting to reach for Harlow. Harlow doesn't look too fazed, and while he begins to guard himself for protection with Presley standing tall behind him—I step in front of my father's path and plant a hand on his chest, stopping him in position.

He halts and looks down at me.

"Stop," I choke, pulling him hand away as if he stings me. Any touch I feel from him will forever be tainted with the association of his slap. I could feel the whip burning me, I could remember the tears pricking my eyes and I will always remember it was him—he was the one who delivered it. "You can't keep blaming people."

He pushes himself off the steps and rage consumes his features. "¿Quieres decirme que no fue él quien te ha puesto todas estas ideas en la cabeza? Desde que has estado saliendo con él, te volviste diferente. Estás portándote mal. Estás contestando. Estás tomando una decisión la que no eres capaz de manejar y al final te va a hacer daño. ¿Quieres decirme que no fue él?" You mean to fucking tell me that it wasn't him who've been putting all of these ideas in your head? Ever since you've been hanging out with him, you became different. You're acting out. You're talking back. You're making a decision you're not capable of handling and it's going to hurt you in the end. You mean to tell me it wasn't him?

I shake my head once, "no."

He scoffs in disbelief, "¿Entonces qué pasó, Dahlia? Si no es él, que le pasó a mi hija—" Then what happened, Dahlia? If not him, what happened to my daughter—

"You!" I cut him off, pointing to my father, a surge of confidence pours through my system. I hated that branding: his daughter. The only time I deserve such a compliment was when I was good enough to be his daughter, but the times I make mistakes, I was my mother's daughter. You can't pick and choose when to love. "Harlow no me hizo actuar de esta manera, tú sí. Eres un padre abusivo, egoísta y narcisista y no puedo soportarlo más. Siempre te perdono cuando la mayoría de las veces, ni siquiera es mi culpa. Me menospreciaste, me has lastimado de muchas maneras, y no me amas." Harlow didn't cause me to act this way, you did. You are an abusive, selfish, narcissistic father and I can't take it anymore. I always forgive you when most of the time, it's not even my fault. You belittled me, you've hurt me in so many ways, and you don't love me." I pause, my voice cracking, "Merezco ser amada." I deserve to be loved.

His expression softens, taking in my declaration after years of suppression. He doesn't say anything, his identical brown eyes study my features as I'm trying so hard not to cry, and he says gently, "Dahlia..."

"No," I shake my head, holding out a hand. "No quiero oírlo. No quiero excusas. Quiero irme." I don't want to hear it. I don't want any excuses. I want to leave.

"Dahlia, you have to listen to me," he pleads, his eyes shifting back and forth from my mother to me. "Por supuesto que te amo, eres mi hija, eres mi sangre, te amo más de lo que me amó a mí mismo—" Of course I love you, you're my daughter, you're my blood, I love you more than I love myself—

"No, tú no me amas. Lo dices, puedes repetirlo un millón de veces, pero no me amas. No lo demuestras. Me das pequeños regalos cada vez que estás equivocado, sólo te preocupas por mí cuando estás pidiendo favores, sólo me ayudas cuando es conveniente. No me amas—" No, you don't. You say it, you can repeat a million times, but you don't love me. You don't show it. You give me little gifts whenever you're in the wrong, you only care about me when you're asking for favors, you only help me when it's convenient. You don't love me—

"¡No hay manera correcta de amar a alguien!" There's no right way to love someone! He cuts me off, eyes burning red. He must've hated hearing all of his shortcomings listed like the ingredients off a box, and his eyes stared back at me, trying to plead through his irises and beg for forgiveness. Forgiveness without an apology or accountability.

Harlow stiffens behind me. The words echoing off the walls in an eerily familiar fashion. I was taken back by surprise at how closely my father and I resemble one another. It was the same seven words I told Harlow—to ease his insecurities, to help him recognize he was enough. I know it fucking stings him to hear it coming out of his mouth.

My jaw drops, and I don't say anything at first. I didn't have an immediate argument that I could counter with that proclamation, because I too, have used the same adage. How can I counter something I wholeheartedly believe in?

When it dawns on me.

I inhale a sharp breath and hold out a finger, my words form a blockage in my throat. My fingers clenching, nails digging into my skin, and with a shaky breath and a cracking voice, I say: "El amor no debería doler." Love shouldn't hurt.

My father is stunned into silence. His own argument backfiring on him, and his eyes soften at my revelation—not from sympathy or understanding, but from defeat.

"Toda mi vida he conocido el amor. Recibo mis ejemplos de mamá, y de mi abuela, y de mis tías. Y es verdad. Con amor, no hay manera correcta de amar a alguien. La forma de afecto de alguien siempre será diferente de la siguiente, pero siempre habrá un punto en común." All my life, I've known love. I get my examples from mom, and from my grandma, and from my aunts. And it's true. With love, there's no right way to love someone. Someone's way of affection will always be different from the next, but there will always be one common ground. I hold, letting him digest my words. The same words I perform without so much as a stutter, but with a slight tremble hanging from the back of my throat. "Y fue amor que nunca duele." And it was that love never hurts.

"Y contigo, duele. Duele mucho. Me has lastimado más de lo que me has amado, y ese siempre será el problema." And with you, it hurts. It hurts so much. You have hurt me more than you have loved me, and that will always be the problem.

So, I square back my shoulders, despite doubt building in my lungs, and I tilt my chin upwards, despite my pounding head begging to lay rest and I turn to my mother. "Mami, te quiero. Sabes que sí. Te amo más de lo que amo a cualquier otra cosa en el mundo, pero no puedo hacer esto por más tiempo. No puedo quedarme más aquí. Tengo que irme." Mom, I love you. You know I do. I love you more than I love anything else in the world—but I can't do anymore. I can't stay here anymore. I have to leave.

She doesn't say anything. Her eyes are glassy, a shade of blue condense like a fog of clouds passing through, and her lips are pressed together tightly. I don't know what I was expecting in response, but I didn't prepare for the silence. I don't think you can ever truly prepare for the silence.

It was a minute, then two, and as time stretched and her words were lodged in her throat, I knew it was time for me to go. I turn back to the boys, with tears brimming my face—knowing my mother couldn't say anything in return—and I nod in affirmation. "It's time."

We finish the last steps of the stairs, touching the foyer, while my father stands still in front of the door. Harlow moves the front, blocking my vision of my father and pulls the door open—waiting for me to make the first step through.

I inhale a sharp breath, letting in the oxygen fill my lungs, and as my foot lifts off the ground—I feel a gentle hand running its thumb across mine.

I turn.

My mother is standing a foot away from me, desperately holding my hand in a plea. Tears streaming down her face, her blue eyes clearer than ever. She doesn't say anything for a couple of seconds, as my father looks down on the interaction, and she whispers, "Dame unos minutos." Give me a few minutes.

She doesn't take the time to explain what she meant, and she releases, running up the stairs in a quick-mannered fashion and disappearing with a turn down the halls. All three of us—Harlow, Presley and I—stood still not sure what the next plan of action is.

A few minutes later, my mother reappears at the top of the stairs with a small bag in her hands and the changed clothes on her back. I knew what was happening before she descended down the steps, meeting us at the foyer, and turns to me without a second glance at my father—her husband.

"Vamos," Let's go. She says, pushing us out of the door before we got the chance to object, and as she quickly trails behind, my father stood rooted to the floor with nothing to do or say.

Presley helps her to the car, taking the bag from her hands and putting it in the trunk alongside with my things. I couldn't think of the words I wanted to say to my mother—the appreciation, the love, the disbelief. I never thought we would be leaving through those doors together.

But, as Harlow guides me to the backseat with my mother and takes the passenger side, and Presley slips into the driver seat, pulling the car in drive—I quickly grab both of my mother's hands in mine.

There were no words as I stared into her bright blue eyes, tearing streaming down my face and the brightest smile to grace my features. There were no words as she pulled me into her embrace, allowing me to rest my head against her shoulder and let out cries out in happiness. I never thought this day would come.

And there were no words, as we took the turn into the Soberano-Godfrey residence, and what was thought to be my imagination, I could still feel my mother's touch on mine as the car halted to a park.

Because, we left.

Together.

a/n: i have transferred my twitter account from zenaouis to @/axzouis. it's less clustered, less centered on followers and likes (i was subconsciously wanting more followers, more likes, from people who didn't even care about my books) and less elitism. if you like my tweets, follow me!! i love interacting, PMing and all that!!

also, shout out to sophie nixon. bc of you, i was so in love with your energy, i had to update for you!!