Ariana POV
Three months later.
Three months had passed since that night.
Three months of healing, physically and emotionally.
Three months of not seeing my father once.
My body was finally recovering. The cast had come off, and I was getting used to walking and writing normally again. Returning to school was stranger than I expected. Everything was familiar, yet somehow different—like someone had rearranged the pieces when I wasn’t looking.
Naturally, the first thing I did when I came back was ask whether my dad had come looking for me.
He hadn’t.
No calls. No messages. No visits. Nothing.
I guess he finally gave up on me.
I was never anything to him but a burden.
He’s probably out there celebrating his freedom—or missing his favorite punching bag.
The harsh honking of the bus
