Broken Promises

16 days ago

I woke up feeling weird—kinda dizzy but somehow safe at the same time. Then like a flood, it all came back to me... the panic attack in the garden, the flashbacks of my mom, and Adam rushing to help me.

My eyes fluttered open to an unfamiliar ceiling. White walls, the smell of antiseptic, the crisp sheets beneath me—I was in the school infirmary. It had been six years since Mom's murder, and I'd managed to keep the panic attacks under control until yesterday, when something about the school garden triggered memories I'd fought so hard to bury.

Using my elbows for support, I pushed myself up. Adam had brought me here after my breakdown. The thought of him carrying me made a tiny smile tug at my lips. We'd only met yesterday—my first day at Westlake High—but somehow he'd been there right when I needed someone.

As if he knew I was thinking about him, the door creaked open. Adam stood there, frozen for a second when he saw I was awake. The relief that washed over his face was so pure it made my heart skip.

He rushed over, nearly tripping in his hurry, and sat at the edge of my bed. His eyes were worried, searching mine.

"Hey," he said softly. The single word carried so much concern.

"You good?" His voice was gentle, wrapped in worry.

"Yeah," I whispered back, my voice barely there.

We sat in silence. Not the awkward kind—the kind where words aren't needed. I could hear the clock ticking, feel his warmth beside me, smell the faint scent of his cologne.

After what felt like forever, Adam spoke up. "So what was that? You seemed like you were going through an extreme breakdown."

My stomach dropped. He had seen me at my worst. The panic attack I hadn't experienced in years had come back with full force. Six years of living alone with Dad after Mom was killed right in front of me... Six years of pretending to be strong.

'Yeah but they didn't have to see their mom killed right in front of them, did they?' The voice in my head was bitter, angry.

I'd made a promise—to Mom, to myself. I wouldn't break down. Not until I found the person who took her from me. Not until I got my revenge.

"Khloe!" Adam's voice pulled me back. He was waving his hand in front of my face, concern etched in every line of his face.

"I guess the question I asked was too personal, huh?" he said with a sad smile that didn't reach his eyes.

I couldn't tell him. He'd see me as weak—weaker than he already thought I was after finding me hyperventilating in the garden on just my second day at this school. And worse, he'd pity me. I couldn't bear that.

"It's nothing really," I forced a smile, hoping he wouldn't see through it.

Adam's eyes softened. "You can tell me anything, you know that right?" His voice was so sincere it almost broke my walls down.

"Yeah." The word hung in the air between us.

Being with Adam felt... different. Free, somehow. We'd just met, yet here I was, trusting him in ways I hadn't trusted anyone in years. It felt right and terrifying all at once. But I couldn't let myself be vulnerable. Not now. I'd spent too long building these walls, becoming the tough, sarcastic girl everyone knew. I couldn't just crumble.

The drive home with Dad was painfully quiet. He kept glancing at me, questions in his eyes that I refused to answer. The school had called him about my panic attack, and I could feel his worry like a physical thing.

"You sure you're okay, kiddo?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

"I'm fine, Dad," I muttered, staring out the window.

As soon as we pulled into our driveway of our new house—we'd just moved to this town last week—I got out and headed straight to my room, ignoring his worried look.

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash over me. It couldn't wash away the memories, though. Nothing ever did. I sighed, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me.

After my shower, I put on a black short that stopped just above my knee and a simple gray t-shirt. Homework—that would distract me. I reached for my math textbook on the shelf in the corner of my room.

Something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. A photograph.

My heart stopped when I picked it up. Mom and me, laughing together on my eleventh birthday. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, her arms wrapped around me. Just three days before she was killed. We looked so happy. So normal.

"Khloe." Dad's voice was soft behind me.

I hadn't heard him come in. When I turned, his face fell as he saw the picture in my trembling hands.

"Khloe," he repeated, pulling me into a hug.

The dam broke. Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast. All the pain I'd been holding in came pouring out in heaving sobs that shook my whole body. I wanted to scream, to let it all out, but all I could do was cry into Dad's shoulder.

"Shh, don't cry... it'll be alright," he whispered, stroking my hair.

But his words only made me cry harder. Because it wouldn't be alright. It hadn't been alright for six years. And no amount of tears would bring her back.

Dad had done his best raising me alone. We'd moved three times since Mom died, each time hoping to outrun the memories. Each time failing.

Sunlight hit my face like a spotlight, forcing me awake. My eyes felt swollen and puffy from crying myself to sleep. Every part of me felt heavy, like my bones were made of lead.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, going through the motions—brush teeth, shower, get dressed. I didn't have the energy to do much with my hair, so I just ran a brush through it, flattening the wild strands.

When I went downstairs, Dad was in the kitchen. His face softened with concern the moment he saw me.

"Khloe, sweetheart," he said gently, walking over to pull me into a hug.

"Good morning, Dad," I replied flatly, my face a mask.

"Morning," he said, releasing me from the hug. "How was your night?"

"Fine." One word, no emotion.

We ate breakfast in silence. The only sounds were forks against plates and the occasional sip of coffee. We didn't talk about last night. We never did.

The school hallway buzzed with life—laughing students, slamming lockers, snippets of conversation. Even after only two days here, I'd already perfected the art of invisibility, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact.

I was so busy shoving books in and out of my locker that I didn't notice someone leaning against the locker next to mine.

"Khloe!" Adam's voice came out of nowhere.

I jumped, my hand flying to my chest. "What the fuck, Adam!" I hissed, my heart racing.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking genuinely apologetic. The slight pout on his lips made my anger fade quickly.

I gave him a small smile to show I wasn't really mad. After yesterday's incident, I was surprised he even wanted to talk to me. Most people would have run for the hills after seeing someone break down like that.

"So what'd you do yesterday? You know, after you got home and all?" he asked casually, as if trying to move past what happened.

"Nothing much," I lied, not wanting to tell him about my crying session. "What about you?"

"Nothing much," he shrugged. "Just video games and sleep."

"Which ones?" I asked, genuinely curious.

A smirk spread across his face. "GTA, Call of Duty."

"Ouuuu, I loveee GTA!" The excitement in my voice surprised even me. It was the first genuine emotion I'd shown all morning.

Adam's smirk transformed into a full grin. "Really?"

"Absolutely," I smiled back, feeling lighter than I had all morning.

"I'm sure you'd never beat me," he teased, eyes sparkling with challenge.

I raised my eyebrows. "You sure about that?"

"Hey, how 'bout we play against each other then?" he suggested.

"Saturday?" I offered.

"Fine by me," he agreed, standing up straight, that infuriating smirk back on his face.

"Wait till I shove your ass on a wall," I grinned, feeling something close to normal for the first time in days.

Adam laughed, the sound warming something inside me. "Dream on, Khloe. Dream on."

As he walked away, I caught myself still smiling. Maybe, just maybe, this new school wouldn't be so bad after all. And maybe Adam wasn't just being nice because he felt sorry for me.

For a moment, I almost forgot about the promise I'd made. About the revenge that had consumed me for six years. Almost.