CHAPTER 12: THE COURAGE
The phone did not stop vibrating.
At first, I tried to ignore it by turning my face toward the wall, as if physically refusing to look at it would somehow quiet the noise inside me. But the sound kept coming back — soft, persistent, almost patient.
Each vibration felt like a reminder that he was still there, still trying, still waiting for me to respond.
I didn't want to look.
And yet I wanted to look more than anything.
When I finally gave in, I didn't pick up the phone immediately. I just leaned over slightly so I could see the screen from where I was lying.
His name filled the notifications. One after another. The brightness of the display cut through the dimness of my room, and for a moment I just stared at it, feeling something tight and uncomfortable settle in my chest.
He was asking if I was mad.
He was apologizing again. He was telling me he didn't mean to hurt me.
I should have felt satisfied. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? For him to realize I was hurt. For him to notice my silence. For him to care enough to keep texting.
But instead of relief, all I felt was exhaustion.
Because why does it always take my silence for him to speak like this?
Why does he only seem afraid of losing me when I pull away?
I reached for the phone and unlocked it, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as his messages stayed open in front of me.
I read each one slowly, as if searching for something hidden between the lines — urgency, regret, fear. I wanted proof that I mattered more than convenience. I wanted to feel chosen, not just reassured.
My fingers almost started typing. I could feel the words forming in my mind, soft and forgiving, ready to smooth everything over the way I always do.
I imagined myself saying it's okay, telling him I overreacted, pretending that being left behind yesterday didn't make me feel invisible.
But the truth sat heavier than that.
Yesterday wasn't just about him going to the airport. It was about the way he didn't tell me beforehand. The way I had to watch him leave without explanation. The way I stood there questioning whether I had imagined the closeness between us.
And now he was texting like nothing truly broke.
If I replied too quickly, it would send the message that this is acceptable. That I will always be here, waiting, forgiving, understanding.
That my hurt can be quieted with a few apologies typed on a screen.
I don't want to be that girl.
So instead of typing, I locked the phone and placed it face down beside me. Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just carefully, as if I were setting down something fragile.
The vibrations continued for a while after that. Slower this time. Less frequent. Each one felt different from the last — first urgent, then hopeful, then uncertain.
Eventually, they stopped.
And the silence that followed felt heavier than the noise ever did.
I lay there staring at the ceiling again, listening to the fan spin above me, wondering if he was still holding his phone the way I had earlier, waiting for those three dots to appear. I wondered if he was confused. If he was frustrated. If he was scared.
I didn't ignore him because I don't love him.
I ignored him because I need him to understand that loving me means thinking of me before I have to ask.
And until he does, my silence will have to speak for me.
I finally forced myself out of bed because lying there wasn't helping. The room felt suffocating, as if the air itself knew I was upset. I walked to the bathroom slowly, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes looked normal.
That annoyed me.
There was no visible sign that I was hurt, no proof that something inside me felt unsettled.
I brushed my hair back and tried to compose myself. I didn't want anyone downstairs asking questions I wasn't ready to answer.
By the time I walked toward the dining area, I could already hear voices — warm, lively, familiar. The smell of breakfast filled the house, comforting and homely. It was strange how the world inside this house could feel so peaceful while my mind felt anything but.
Mom was smiling when she saw me, her face lighting up in that way only mothers can manage so effortlessly. My grandmother was seated at the table, already mid-conversation about something that sounded amusing.
There was laughter. Lightness. A sense of togetherness that usually pulled me in.
Today, it only reminded me of the contrast.
I sat down quietly, forcing a small smile when Mom asked if I slept well.
I nodded, even though sleep had felt restless. Plates were passed around. Food was served. Everyone began eating with an easy rhythm, talking about small things — errands, neighbors, plans for the day.
They were happy.
Genuinely happy.
And I felt almost guilty for not being able to match that energy.
I picked at my food absentmindedly, chewing without tasting. Every now and then, my phone screen would light up beside my plate, and even though I told myself I wouldn't check, I was painfully aware of it.
I was still angry.
Not just because Zack left yesterday, but because he left without telling me. Because I had already told him how much it hurts when he disappears without explanation.
I had asked him — clearly, vulnerably — not to ghost me. Not to make me feel like I'm standing alone while he walks away.
And he did it anyway.
That's what hurt the most.
It wasn't the airport. It wasn't the childhood friend. It was the fact that I wasn't important enough to inform beforehand.
Across the table, my grandmother laughed at something Mom said, and for a moment I wished I could just borrow their happiness. I wished emotions were that simple — eat, talk, laugh, move on.
But my mind kept replaying yesterday. The way I stood there. The way he said he'd explain later. The way later never came until I had to bring it up myself.
Mom glanced at me again, her smile softening slightly as if she sensed something was off. I straightened in my chair and forced myself to join the conversation, nodding at the right moments, offering small responses, pretending I wasn't carrying an argument in my chest.
No one noticed.
Or maybe they chose not to.
The strangest part was that everything around me was normal. The food tasted the same.
The sunlight streamed in through the windows the same way it always did. My family's laughter echoed just as warmly as every other morning.
And yet, I felt disconnected from it all.
Anger doesn't shout the way sadness does. It sits quietly, tight and controlled, pretending it's strength when it's really just hurt wearing armor.
And as I sat there at the breakfast table, surrounded by love and warmth, I realized something I didn't want to admit—
I wasn't just mad at Zack.
I was afraid that I cared more than he ever would.
Mom must have been watching me more closely than I realized.
I was still pushing food around my plate when her voice softened in a way that made my chest tighten.
"Jane… are you still mad at me?"
The question caught me off guard.
For a second, I didn't even understand what she meant. Then it clicked — the argument we had. The words that were said. The silence that followed. Of course she thought my mood was about her.
Guilt slipped quietly into the space my anger had been occupying.
I looked up at her and shook my head. "No, Mom."
And I meant it.
Whatever frustration I carried this morning wasn't because of her.
She studied my face carefully, like she was trying to read the truth behind my expression.
My mother has always had that ability — to sense things I don't say out loud.
"Jane," she continued gently, "believe me… I know how much this Zack boy is important to you."
The word important hit me strangely. It felt too exposed, too revealing, like something private had just been placed in the center of the table for everyone to see. My heartbeat shifted, and for a brief second, I felt almost defensive.
Important?
Was he that obvious in my life?
But before I could react, she added, "Still… he is to be avoided."
Avoided.
That word did something unexpected. It irritated me — because who was she to decide that? Yet at the same time, it gave me a strange sense of protection, like someone was quietly standing on my side without fully knowing the battle.
I felt anger flicker at the idea that she thought she understood him.
And yet, I also felt comfort in the fact that she thought I deserved better.
I forced a small smile, one that didn't fully reach my eyes.
"Mom… you're partly right."
The words came out calmer than I felt. They were balanced. Careful. Safe.
But the moment I said that, I noticed Alex.
She wasn't smiling.
She was watching me.
Not casually — but closely. Thoughtfully. Almost suspiciously.
And I knew why.
Yesterday's conversation wasn't something that just disappeared. The things Alex saw. The things she questioned.
The tension that lingered after that conversation — it hadn't dissolved. It had simply settled into silence.
Now, hearing me say Mom was "partly right" must have sounded inconsistent. Or confusing. Or like I was hiding something.
Alex's eyes narrowed slightly, and I felt exposed all over again.
I suddenly didn't want to be at that table anymore.
"I'm done," I said quietly, standing up before anyone could continue the conversation.
Mom looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn't. Alex kept watching me as I walked away, and I could feel that look following me all the way down the hallway.
Back in my room, I shut the door softly and leaned against it for a moment.
Why does everything feel complicated at the same time?
I walked to my bed and picked up my phone again. Zack's messages were still there, unread since the last time I looked. I didn't open them. I didn't have the energy for another emotional tug-of-war.
Instead, I opened Netflix.
If I couldn't quiet my mind, maybe I could drown it.
I scrolled without really seeing the titles, letting the movement of the screen distract me. Movies. Shows. Stories that belonged to other people. Other problems. Other heartbreaks.
I picked something randomly and pressed play.
The sound filled the room, characters talking, background music swelling dramatically. I lay back against my pillow, staring at the screen, pretending to focus on the plot.
But even as the movie played, my thoughts drifted.
To Zack.
To Mom's warning.
To Alex's suspicious glance.
To the feeling that everything around me was slowly tightening.
Escaping into a movie was easier than facing real conversations.
Because in movies, conflicts have clear endings.
In real life, you just sit there… waiting for the next message to vibrate your phone.
The movie was playing in the background, but I wasn't watching it anymore. The voices blurred into noise as my phone suddenly lit up with Heather's name flashing across the screen.
I answered before the second ring.
"Jane!" she said, her voice bursting through the speaker like sunlight. "I'm coming this Wednesday."
For a second, I forgot everything.
"Shut up. You're lying."
"I swear I'm not. Tickets are booked. You're stuck with me."
And just like that, I laughed — a real laugh, not the polite one I had been forcing all morning. My chest felt lighter. Heather had always had that effect on me. She didn't try to fix things. She just made them feel survivable.
After the excitement settled, her tone shifted slightly.
"Okay… now tell me what's going on. You've been weird all week."
I lay back against my pillow, staring at the ceiling.
"It's a lot," I muttered.
"I have time."
And that was all the permission I needed.
I told her about that day with Zack. About how everything felt normal until it wasn't.
About how I didn't plan to hug him — it just happened. One second we were arguing softly, the next I was stepping forward, wrapping my arms around him like I was scared he would disappear.
I could still remember the warmth of him. The faint scent of his perfume — something woody and clean that stayed on my clothes even after I left.
I remembered pressing my forehead against his chest, feeling how solid he felt beneath my touch. He had been working hard lately, trying to be better, stronger — I could feel it in the way he held me.
For that moment, I felt safe.
Heather didn't speak for a few seconds.
Then suddenly—
"You hugged him?"
The way she said it made me sit up.
"Yeah…"
"Jane."
"What?"
"You hugged him."
"Yes, Heather, I know what I did."
She let out a dramatic gasp. "Oh my God. Someone is definitely getting a boyfriend."
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks were warm. "It's not like that."
"Mm-hmm. Sure."
I didn't laugh this time.
"That's when everything started," I said quietly.
Her teasing tone disappeared instantly.
"What do you mean?"
I swallowed.
"Berry saw. I don't even know. But after that… it became a thing. The whispering. The looks. The comments in the hallway. Like I committed some crime."
My fingers tightened around the edge of my bedsheet as I continued.
"They started cornering me. Saying things. Laughing. Acting like I was desperate or something."
Heather's breathing changed on the other end.
"And then?"
"And then it turned into straight-up bullying," I admitted. "If Principal Henry hadn't walked in when he did…"
I didn't finish the sentence.
There was a long pause.
Then Heather exploded.
"How dare that bitch try to hurt you?" she snapped, her voice shaking with anger. "Who does she think she is? Wait until I see her. I swear, Jane, I will kick her ass."
Despite everything, I laughed — not because it was funny, but because the sheer intensity of her protectiveness felt overwhelming in the best way.
"Heather, calm down."
"No, I won't calm down. She thinks she can just mess with you? Not happening. I don't care who she is."
For a moment, I let myself enjoy it — the feeling of someone being angry for me.
"Is she the problem?" Heather asked after a second, her voice still heated.
I stared at the wall.
"No."
"Then who?"
I hesitated.
"It's my mom."
Silence.
"What?"
I exhaled slowly. "The principal called her. Told her everything. About the bullying. About Zack being involved somehow. And you know how she is…"
Heather didn't interrupt this time.
"She went full overprotective mode. She thinks Zack is the reason all this is happening. She told me to avoid him. To stay away before things get worse."
"And what did you say?"
"I didn't say anything. I just stood there."
My voice felt smaller now.
"And now," I continued, "she gave me today. Today is the last day. I have to decide whether I'm still going to dinner with him or not."
The words hung heavy between us.
Heather's voice softened, but the fire was still there underneath.
"So you're not just choosing dinner, are you?"
I closed my eyes.
"No."
"You're choosing sides."
That was exactly it.
Heather let out a slow breath.
"Jane… tell me something honestly."
"What?"
"When you hugged him… did it feel wrong?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Because it didn't.
And that was the problem.
Between my mother's fear and my own feelings.
Between safety and whatever this thing with Zack is becoming.
I stayed quiet for a moment after Heather's question.
"When you hugged him… did it feel wrong?"
I stared at the ceiling, replaying that moment again — the warmth, the steadiness, the way my anxiety had quieted for those few seconds.
"No," I admitted softly. "It didn't feel dangerous. I felt safe."
There was no hesitation in that answer.
Heather didn't respond immediately. When she did, her voice was calmer, but sharper.
"Then why are you even thinking about not going to dinner with him?"
I sat up slowly, pulling my knees toward my chest.
"You don't get it," I said. "If I go to dinner with him, everyone will turn against me."
"Everyone who?" she pressed.
I swallowed.
"Zack will suffer. People will say he's going out with a fatherless girl like it's some kind of label. My mom will think he's trying to hurt me. And Berry…" I paused, my jaw tightening. "Berry will definitely tell Ashley. She'll twist the whole thing."
I could already imagine the whispers. The looks. The drama.
But before I could spiral further, Heather's voice cut through my thoughts.
"Jane."
"What?"
"What do YOU think will actually happen?"
Her tone wasn't mocking. It wasn't angry. It was firm.
I blinked.
"I just told you—"
"No," she interrupted gently but strongly. "You told me what other people might think. I'm asking what you think will happen."
That question stopped me completely.
I opened my mouth, but no answer came out.
For the first time, I realized something uncomfortable — every reason I had given was about someone else's reaction.
Heather continued, softer now.
"Did Zack think about what people would say when you hugged him?"
I remembered how naturally he held me. How he didn't pull away. How he didn't look embarrassed.
"No," I admitted.
"He allowed you to," she said. "He didn't look ashamed, right?"
"No."
"Was I ever ashamed to be your friend?"
I almost laughed. "Of course not."
"Then why," she asked carefully, "are you so afraid of other people's opinions? Why are you always trying to please everyone else?"
Her words weren't harsh. They were honest.
I stared at my reflection in the dark phone screen.
Why was I?
Why was I living as if everyone else's comfort mattered more than mine?
"You keep saying 'maybe you're right,'"
Heather continued. "Maybe I'm right. Maybe this. Maybe that. Jane, this is your life. Not Berry's. Not Ashley's. Not even your mom's."
I felt something shift inside me — small, but real.
"You have to go to that dinner," she said firmly. "Not for Zack. Not to prove anything. But because you want to."
The room was quiet except for my breathing.
And suddenly, I remembered something.
My father's voice.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. Just calm and steady, the way he used to speak when I doubted myself.
"Jane, it's your life to live."
The memory hit me harder than I expected. For so long, I had been trying to live carefully — cautiously — correctly.
But when did I stop living bravely?
I lifted my head.
"You're right," I said quietly.
Heather didn't reply.
"No," I corrected myself, feeling something stronger rise in my chest. "You are right."
There was a difference.
A long pause followed, but this time it didn't feel heavy. It felt decisive.
"I'm going," I said.
"That's my girl," Heather whispered, satisfied.
We talked for a few more seconds, lighter now, before I ended the call. My hand trembled slightly as I stared at Zack's name in my contacts.
This wasn't about rebellion.
It wasn't about drama.
It was about choosing for myself.
I pressed call.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
And as it continued ringing, I felt something I hadn't felt all day.
Courage.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
want to know when will next chapter will upload or needed to see how's the character will look
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