The boy who hurt me first

009

𝒯𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒶 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔

"I'm fine, Hardin."

The lie leaves my mouth sharp and brittle, like glass snapping under pressure. It doesn't even try to sound true. It comes out the way survival comes out—fast, defensive, automatic. A sentence I throw between us like a door I can slam before he sees what's inside.

Because if I stop—if I pause long enough to let the moment catch up to me—I'm going to feel it. All of it.

The almost.
The edge.
The way the world tilted.

And I can't. Not with him watching.

I pull my hands away from him like his touch burned instead of saved me. Like it didn't just anchor me to the ground seconds ago. Like my skin isn't still remembering the shape of his grip—firm, urgent, real.

I turn on my heel and walk away before he can answer, before he can say my name again, before he can ask the question I don't know how to survive.

For a second I expect him to follow. I expect his voice—hard, mocking, impatient.

But the air behind me stays quiet.

That makes it worse.

My heart is still slamming against my ribs, wild and panicked, like it doesn't believe the danger is over. My lungs feel wrong, like breathing is something I have to remember how to do manually.

In.
Out.
In.

Every breath is shallow, jagged. Like my body is still bracing for impact.

I keep walking.

Fast. Too fast.

The gravel crunches under my shoes. The sound is too loud. The park is too open. The sky is too grey. Everything feels exposed, like the world can see the parts of me that are shaking even when I'm trying not to.

The cold crawls across my skin in slow, deliberate fingers. It slips under my sleeves and down my neck. I realize my cheeks are wet—maybe from the wind, maybe from the aftermath of fear. My hands curl into fists until my nails press into my palms.

I'm angry.

Furious, actually.

That he stepped in. That he grabbed me. That he grounded me. That he stopped something I didn't even realize was already happening. That he pulled me back when I was so tired of holding myself upright.

It's the kind of anger that tastes metallic in my mouth. The kind that feels easier than the truth.

Because the truth is—

I needed him.

And I hate that.

I hate that my body responded to him like he was still safe, like he was still the one person who could cut through the noise in my head with a single touch.

And somehow—twisted up underneath all of that anger—I'm grateful.

Painfully grateful.

He saved my life. I know he did. Even if I don't want to look at him long enough to admit it. Even if admitting it would mean admitting how fragile I really am. How close I was. How quickly the world can go dark when you're tired of fighting your own thoughts.

Why would he do that?

Hardin doesn't do things like that. Not for me. Not anymore.

The last time we spoke, he made it so clear. Clear enough to carve into my chest and stay there like a scar I keep touching even when it hurts.