Chapter 3

Josiah's voice, rough and urgent, cut through the din of the hallway. "Grace! Wait!"

I didn't stop. My legs propelled me forward, a desperate urge to escape this place, this humiliation, this crushing reality. He quickly caught up, grabbing my arm. His touch, once a comfort, now felt like a brand.

"Grace, what was that?" he asked, his eyes wide, a flicker of genuine confusion in them. "Why did you just walk away? And... you spoke. You actually spoke!"

I pulled my arm away, my gaze fixed on some point beyond his shoulder. My throat was tight again, the words I'd spoken earlier, the ones Alexandria had used against me, now felt like ash in my mouth.

"Why are you ignoring me?" he pressed, his voice laced with a hurt I knew was feigned. "Alexandria didn't mean anything by it. You know how she is. She gets jealous."

Jealous. Of me. The mute, tragedy girl. The absurdity of it was almost laughable.

I remained silent, my chest heaving. Every nerve ending screamed at me to run, to hide, to disappear.

"Look, I know it sucks," he continued, gesturing vaguely. "The principal, you know... he has to keep the school happy. Alex's parents donate a lot." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. "But that doesn't mean your art isn't good. It's amazing, Grace. Really. Just... maybe a bit too much for a high school hallway."

His words hit me like stones. He was trying to explain, to justify, to diminish. He was trying to make it my fault, my "intensity" the problem. He wasn't seeing my pain, only his own discomfort.

I remembered the countless hours I'd spent on that mural. The late nights, the aching back, the paint smudged on my clothes. Each stroke, each color choice, was a testament to my struggle, my journey, my quiet fight to be seen. I had done it for myself, yes, but also, in a way, for him. To show him I wasn't just a mute girl in a corner. To show him I was strong, capable, deserving.

And he had just dismissed it. "A bit too much."

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. He glanced around, as if expecting someone to rescue him from this awkward encounter.

"So," he finally said, his voice lighter, almost forced. "About this weekend, the camping trip? We're still on, right? It'll be fun. Just like old times. You, me, Alex, Mark..."

My eyes flickered to the bracelet on his wrist. A simple, braided leather band. It wasn't the one I had made for him, a small, intricate piece woven with threads of blue and silver, matching the one I wore. That one, the one I'd painstakingly crafted for his birthday, had disappeared months ago. But Alexandria wore a similar one now, a bright red charm bracelet, clinking cheerfully on her delicate wrist, a gift from him, no doubt. He had replaced my silent token with her flashy declaration.

It was a small detail, but it was a universe of meaning. He had selectively chosen who to love, who to value, who to acknowledge. And it wasn't me. It never had been.

A sudden, overwhelming wave of grief washed over me. It wasn't the kind that made me sob, but a quiet, internal ache that felt like my soul was shrinking. A single tear, hot and heavy, escaped and tracked down my cheek. It was the last tear I would shed for him. I promised myself that.

I clenched my fists, a fierce resolve hardening in my chest. I would not love him anymore. I would not. He wasn't worth it. None of it was worth it.

I needed to sever all ties. Completely. And the camping trip, the symbol of our "old times," would be the last thread. I would go. I would face it. And then, I would cut him out for good.