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It had been a few weeks since the shooting.

Since the threats.

Since Zoe.

At first, I thought I'd never feel normal again—like the fear had rooted itself so deep in my bones that I'd carry it forever. I kept waiting for the next email. The next message. The next shadow in the hallway or face in the crowd. I didn't sleep much those first few nights back home. Every creak in the walls felt like footsteps. Every gust of wind outside sounded like someone breathing against the glass.

But life... life doesn't ask if you're ready before it moves on.

And slowly, almost without realizing it, I had started to move too.

The school hallways didn't feel like a war zone anymore. The place that had once felt haunted—by memory, by fear—had softened. The stares were fewer now. The whispers that once chased me between classes had faded into background noise. I wasn't the girl everyone avoided, or the one they looked at like I might shatter if they said the wrong thing.

I wasn't just the survivor anymore.

I was Emily.

And school had actually been... fun.

It felt weird even thinking that word. Like I was betraying everything I'd been through by smiling too wide or laughing too hard. But it was true. Somewhere between late homework, bad cafeteria pizza, and Mia's deadpan sarcasm during math, the heaviness started to lift.

I laughed more.

I could walk to class without hugging the wall.

I didn't flinch when someone dropped a book behind me.

I could breathe.

I wasn't whole—but I wasn't breaking anymore, either.

Of course, not everything had changed.

Trevor was still Trevor.

Still muttering garbage under his breath when he thought no one could hear. Still sending me those side-eyed glares from across the classroom like my existence was some kind of insult. Still acting like I'd somehow wronged him just by surviving.

But the difference now?

I wasn't alone in shutting him down.

Jasmine had turned into my own personal bodyguard with no volume control. The first time Trevor made a snide comment in science class, she slammed her pencil down and said, loud enough for half the room to hear, "Why don't you try evolving for once, Trevor? Or is that too advanced for you?"

The whole room laughed.

Even Mr. Reid cracked a smile behind his coffee mug.

And Mia—quiet, observant Mia—had a way of slicing him to pieces with just a few well-placed words. The kind that didn't yell. They just hit.

"Do you ever get tired of being pathetic?" she asked one day, not even looking up from her book.

Trevor had blinked at her like she'd slapped him.

And then there was Lexi.

Lexi, who had once stood beside Tasha, now stood between me and Trevor like a wall he couldn't move. She didn't say much, but when she did, it landed like a brick.

The first time she told him, "Shut up and get over yourself," I'd nearly dropped my books.

Now?

It was just part of the routine.

The best part was the look on Trevor's face. Like he couldn't believe she of all people wasn't on his side anymore. Like the world had tilted just enough to knock the power out of his hands.

He was still an issue.

But not a problem.

Not for me.

And that—more than anything—felt like progress.

In gym class, Jasmine and I ended up as partners for a volleyball unit, which mostly consisted of her making wild dives and me laughing too hard to serve straight. Mia kept score with the calm ruthlessness of a war general, and even Lexi—who always hung back during group stuff—joined in during warmups.

We weren't just surviving anymore.

We were rebuilding.

And maybe I still had nightmares sometimes. Maybe I still double-checked the locks before bed and kept my phone face-down so I didn't have to stare at the screen, waiting for another message.

But I also knew how to laugh again.

I knew how to trust people again.

Even Lexi.

We'd never be best friends. Too much had happened. Too many walls between us.

But she'd made her choice. And every time she stood beside me, backed me up, or even just didn't look away when Trevor started talking, it chipped away at the weight I'd carried for so long.

The world wasn't perfect.

I wasn't perfect.

But I was still here.

And that had to count for something.

I was in line at the cafeteria, staring down at the rectangle pizza on my tray. It looked the same as always—a little too orange, slightly overcooked at the edges, and somehow both too greasy and too dry at the same time. The kind of meal that probably should've made me hesitate.

But today, I didn't care.

I was just glad to be here.

I grabbed a packet of ranch dressing from the condiments section before heading to my usual table. The lunchroom was buzzing with chatter, the clatter of trays and the hum of a hundred overlapping conversations filling the space. It felt... normal. A kind of chaotic normal that I hadn't been able to appreciate for weeks.

As soon as I sat down, Jasmine smirked. "Emily Blake, actually eating lunch? That's a miracle."

Mia gave me a knowing look as she popped open her container of yogurt. "Yeah, remember when she just stared at her food like it was cursed?"

I rolled my eyes but smiled as I peeled open the packet of ranch and drizzled it over my pizza. The creamy white dressing pooled over the cheese, mixing with the orange grease in a way that made Mia wrinkle her nose.

Jasmine gasped dramatically. "Oh my god, you're one of those people."

I raised an eyebrow. "One of what people?"

Jasmine pointed at my pizza with exaggerated horror. "Ranch on pizza people."

Mia sighed, shaking her head. "Disgraceful."

I smirked, picking up a slice and taking a big bite. "You guys don't know what you're missing."

Jasmine shuddered. "No, I think we do. And that's why we avoid it."

Mia poked at her yogurt absentmindedly. "To be fair, compared to the cafeteria sauce, ranch might actually be an upgrade."

I held my slice out toward Jasmine, wiggling it a little. "You sure you don't want to try it?"

Jasmine recoiled like I had just held up something radioactive. "Get that monstrosity away from me."

Mia snorted. "She's too dramatic for her own good."

I laughed. A real, genuine laugh that I didn't have to force. It felt good.

Later that day, as I stuffed my books into my locker, I paused.

The hallway buzzed with end-of-day chatter—backpacks slung over shoulders, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, someone laughing too loudly near the vending machines. Just noise. Just life.

For weeks, this place had felt like a battlefield. Every hallway, every corner, every classroom held ghosts of fear—shadows of the past that clung to me like a second skin. I used to flinch at sudden bells, brace myself whenever someone came too close, scan every unfamiliar face like it might belong to someone who didn't belong.

The echoes of whispered rumors.

The weight of anxious glances.

The creeping dread that something bad could happen again.

But today?

Today it just felt like school.

Not a place of terror. Not a minefield of memories.

Just a regular school, with scuffed floors and bad lighting and lockers that always jammed. A place where Jasmine was probably waiting to tell me some ridiculous story about gym class, and Mia would roll her eyes like she wasn't secretly amused. A place where Lexi, somehow, was no longer part of the problem—but part of the solution.

I let out a slow breath, leaning against the cool metal of the locker door.

I wasn't fully healed.

Maybe I never would be.

There would always be a part of me that remembered—moments burned into my memory like scars. I'd probably always check the shadows twice, keep one ear tuned for danger that might never come.

But I was here.

I was standing.

I was living.

And after everything?

That was enough.

That evening, the house smelled like spaghetti and garlic bread.

Not takeout. Not something microwaved at the hotel.

Real food. Home-cooked. Warm.

I stood in the kitchen barefoot, leaning against the counter while steam curled from the pot on the stove. Mom moved around like she was in her element again, humming under her breath, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. The radio played softly in the background—some old song she loved but would never admit was a favorite.

It was simple.

But after everything?

It felt like magic.

Lily and Sam sat at the dining table, arguing over a game of Uno. Sam kept trying to peek at her cards, and Lily kept smacking his hand with exaggerated drama. The sound of their bickering made me smile. It was the kind of noise I used to tune out. Now, I savored every bit of it.

Uncle David came in through the back door, shaking snow from his coat. "Smells like civilization in here," he said with a grin.

"Try not to track the wilderness across my kitchen," Mom replied, raising an eyebrow but smiling anyway.

He held up his hands in mock surrender and hung his coat on the hook by the door.

I stirred the sauce while Mom sliced the bread, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence in my head wasn't deafening. It was peaceful.

Safe.

"Hey, Em," Sam called suddenly. "Wanna get destroyed in Uno after dinner?"

I glanced at Lily, who rolled her eyes. "He's cheating."

"I'm strategizing," Sam argued.

"You're peeking."

"Same difference."

I laughed. "Sure. I'll destroy both of you."

"Confidence," Uncle David muttered as he poured himself some sweet tea. "Dangerous thing in this family."

Mom set down the knife, wiped her hands on a towel, and gave me a look. One of those long, quiet ones that says everything without words.

I gave her a small nod.

I was okay.

Dinner was loud. Messy. Filled with overlapping conversations and second helpings and Sam complaining about the sauce being too spicy—which it wasn't.

Afterward, Lily insisted on doing the dishes to get out of homework. Sam tried to help but mostly just splashed water on the floor. Mom shooed them both away after five minutes.

Uncle David sat in the armchair with a newspaper, flipping through it like he was still pretending to be off-duty. I curled up on the couch with a blanket and let myself relax into the rhythm of home.

It wasn't perfect.

The shadows hadn't vanished completely.

But tonight, they didn't feel so heavy.

Tonight, the walls weren't closing in.

They were holding us together.

Later that night, after the dishes were done and the house had settled into its evening hush, I found myself sitting on the front steps with a mug of hot cocoa in my hands. The air was crisp, and the stars were barely visible behind a thin veil of clouds. I pulled my hoodie tighter around me and took a slow sip, letting the warmth sink in.

Uncle David sat beside me, his own cup steaming gently in the cold.

Neither of us said much at first. We didn't have to. Sometimes silence said more than words could.

"It's nice," I murmured eventually. "Being home. Having things feel kind of normal again."

He nodded. "You've come a long way, Emily."

I looked down at the mug in my hands. "Only because you helped me."

He didn't respond right away. Just watched the snow glint under the porch light, his expression thoughtful.

"I'm glad I was here," he said finally. "I wish I could stay longer."

I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek. "Me too."

I knew he had a life to get back to. A home of his own. A job that wasn't just chasing down shadows for me. But still... it stung. After everything—every night he stayed up watching surveillance, every quiet word when I needed grounding, every moment he stood between us and the unknown—letting him go felt like losing a shield I didn't know I still needed.

"I hate that part," I whispered. "When the people who helped you the most have to go back to their own lives. Like they're chapters in your story, but you're not in theirs anymore."

Uncle David turned to look at me. "You'll always be in mine."

His voice was steady, but softer than usual.

"I'll still check in," he added. "Probably too much. You'll get sick of hearing from me."

I smiled a little. "Not possible."

He stood slowly, stretching his back with a quiet groan. "I head out tomorrow morning."

I looked away so he wouldn't see the sting in my eyes.

"Don't worry," he added, resting a hand on my shoulder. "You've got a good team here. Family. Friends. And you're stronger than you think."

I nodded, even though the lump in my throat made it hard to say anything.

When he went back inside, I stayed on the steps a little longer.

The wind picked up, rustling the trees at the edge of the yard. It didn't scare me—not the way it used to. It just reminded me that the world was still moving, still changing, whether I was ready or not.

Uncle David was leaving tomorrow.

But he'd been here when it mattered most.

And I'm happy he did.