Episode Nine:Breaking The Silence
876 Words
He didn’t speak for a long time after the video ended.
He just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep the pieces of himself from falling out.
I sat next to him, close but not touching, giving him the space I knew he needed.
The file sat open on the laptop. Frozen at the final frame. A moment no one should have had the power to capture, let alone weaponize.
But there it was—proof.
Not just of what had happened.
But of who Lucas really was.
And that was something we could finally use.
“I always wondered if I imagined it,” Jace said, voice low and cracked.
I looked at him.
“The blackout. The way I woke up in his bed. I thought maybe I’d just pushed it too far. Got drunk. Let him in. I blamed myself.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
He shook his head. “That’s what they want you to do. Think it’s your fault. Think you said yes without meaning to.”
He turned to me, eyes shining.
“This is the first time I feel like someone else might believe it happened. Because now... there’s something to see.”
I reached for his hand.
He let me take it.
The next morning, we sent the video to the lawyer.
She didn’t hesitate.
“This changes everything,” she said over the phone. “We can file for a protective order immediately. And you’ll have strong ground to counter Lucas’s legal threats.”
Jace nodded as I put the call on speaker. “What happens next?”
“Publicly? Things will move fast. More attention. More questions. You’ll be asked to relive parts of this again and again.”
“Then let’s get ahead of it.”
“You sure?”
He looked at me.
I gave a quiet nod.
“I’m sure.”
He posted a second time.
This time, no painting.
Just his words.
“I have video proof. I’m working with an attorney. What was done to me wasn’t just emotional—it was real. To everyone who's doubted, minimized, or stayed silent: that ends now.”
It spread faster than the first.
More press requests. More anonymous DMs. More people—some supportive, some cruel.
But this time, Jace didn’t hide from any of it.
He sat with me in the kitchen, answering a few messages, screenshotting threats, archiving support.
“This isn’t just about me anymore,” he said.
And I believed him.
We decided to leave the city for a few days.
The lawyer encouraged it.
“Until the order’s filed and delivered, he’s unpredictable,” she said. “And if the media starts pressing harder, you’ll want a quieter space.”
Ruth, the woman who owned the bookstore downstairs, offered us a small house upstate. Just one bedroom. A fireplace. A quiet lake.
We packed in under an hour.
And we left.
The moment we arrived, it felt like a different world.
No horns. No headlines. Just birdsong, wind, and water.
Jace stood on the porch for nearly ten minutes, breathing in the silence like it was medicine.
“I forgot what stillness felt like,” he said.
That night, we lit a fire and fell asleep on the floor, wrapped in blankets, watching shadows flicker across the ceiling.
We didn’t speak.
We didn’t touch.
We just existed. Fully. Together.
In the morning, I woke to the sound of him sketching.
He was curled on the rug, hoodie sleeves pushed up, pencil moving across the page in slow, deliberate strokes.
He looked up when he saw me.
“I had a dream,” he said.
“Good or bad?”
“Both.”
He held up the drawing.
It was him. Lying on his side, one hand on his heart. Eyes closed, but peaceful.
“I don’t remember the last time I looked like that,” he said.
“You looked like that last night.”
His throat tightened. “You think I’ll ever feel safe again?”
“I think you’re already on your way.”
Later that day, the lawyer called.
“The protective order was approved,” she said. “Lucas will be served within 48 hours. We’ve submitted the evidence to the DA’s office for possible charges.”
I watched Jace’s face as she spoke.
Relief and fear tangled together.
After the call, he sat down beside me and said, “It’s starting.”
I nodded. “It is.”
And I could see it in his eyes.
The beginning of healing.
That night, he painted again.
Not darkness.
Not rage.
But light.
He used golds. Blues. White for the first time in weeks.
And when he was done, he turned to me and said:
“I want to name this one ‘After.’ Because everything before hurt. And everything after might still hurt—but now it’s mine.”
But just before we went to sleep, I checked my email.
One new message.
No subject.
No body.
Just an attachment: a scanned image of my old company ID.
And a message scrawled in red at the bottom.
“You’re next.”
- Writer
