Exit wounds

SIX : REMEMBERING HER NAME

I didn’t plan to text Serena.

It just… happened.

The same way some people drink too much when they’re angry.

I reached for something familiar, warm, something that didn’t ask me to lie.

Me: “Still up?”

Three years of silence vanished in three dots.

Serena: “Holy s**t. Xamira???”

Me: “Yeah.”

Serena: “Are you okay?”

That was the first time someone asked me that in months.

I stared at the blinking cursor for a long time.

Me: “I’m fine .”

She called me.

Not texted.

Not voice note.

Not waited.

Just called.

And I answered.

Even though it was after midnight.

Even though Tavish was asleep in the next room.

Even though my voice trembled when I said, “Hi.”

Serena and I used to be inseparable.

We were wild in college. Loud. Loyal. Stupidly brave. We wore red lipstick and confidence like armor, and we always had each other’s backs, until Tavish started “encouraging” me to keep my circle smaller. Quieter.

“Some of your friends don’t really get where we’re going,” he used to say with a laugh.

“You’re evolving, baby. And some people don’t know how to grow with you.”

So I stopped inviting her.

Stopped answering.

And eventually, she stopped trying.

But last night?

She didn’t even bring it up.

Didn’t guilt-trip me.

Didn’t shame me.

Just listened.

“…Xamira?”

Her grip on the phone tightened slightly. That voice. It had been years, but some things didn’t change.

“Serena.”

A soft breath came through the line, almost disbelieving. “Oh my God… it’s really you.”

Xamira moved slowly toward the window, her gaze drifting outside as if it made the conversation easier to hold. “It’s me.”

Another pause settled between them. Not uncomfortable just heavy with time.

“Three years,” Serena said quietly. “You just disappeared like that.”

Xamira didn’t respond immediately. She watched the city, distant and calm. “I didn’t disappear. I just… stepped back.”

Serena let out a faint laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Stepped back? Xamira, we stopped hearing from you completely.”

Silence.

Then Xamira, softer now, “I know.”

A beat.

Serena’s voice shifted, more careful this time. “Are you okay?”

Xamira looked down at her hand resting lightly on the windowsill. “I’m fine.”

Serena didn’t believe her and she didn’t need to say it.

Xamira finally spoke, her voice lower. “Why did you reply to my text… and even go ahead to call me, after how I pushed you away, Serena?”

There was a small hesitation on the other end.

“Because I missed you,” she said simply. “And because something tells me you don’t have many people who actually check on you anymore.”

That hit a little closer than Xamira expected.

She turned slightly away from the window. “People change.”

“So do friendships,” Serena replied gently. “But that doesn’t mean they end.”

Another pause.

Xamira’s voice softened just a fraction. “You still sound the same.”

“And you don’t,” Serena said honestly. “But I guess I didn’t expect you to.”

Xamira let out a quiet breath, almost like a small laugh that didn’t fully form. “Three years does that.”

“Yeah,” Serena said. “It does.”

A moment of stillness passed between them again, but this time it wasn’t empty.

It felt like something reopening.

“You still dance?” she asked quietly.

I laughed. Bitter. Short.

“No.”

“You used to be good. Really good.”

“Tavish said it was a phase.”

“Tavish says a lot of things, huh?”

We were quiet for a second.

Then we both laughed. Hard.

The kind of laugh you forget your body remembers how to do.

“Let’s get lunch this weekend,” she said.

“I don’t know if I…”

“Xamira. You don’t owe him your whole calendar.”

She was right.

So I said yes.

And when I hung up, I sat in the dark for a while, holding the silence in my hands like a fragile thing.

The next morning, Tavish noticed something different.

Maybe it was the way I hummed while brushing my hair.

Or the way I wore that red lipstick I had stopped wearing.

Or maybe it was the smile I gave him across the table, slow, amused, unreadable.

Not the kind that begged for affection.

Not the kind that said “Please still love me.”

This one said “I’m watching you.”

“You look… different today,” he said, sipping his espresso.

“Do I?” I asked.

He smiled, unsure.

And for once, I didn’t rush to comfort him.

I let the moment stretch.

I let him feel off balance.

Because maybe I’d spent too long folding myself small just so he could feel tall.

And maybe I was finally learning to stand back up.

That night, I stepped into the studio at the far end of the house.

The space was quiet, lit only by a soft glow that made everything feel slower, softer almost unreal.

I hadn’t been here in a long time.

The floor felt familiar beneath my feet, like a memory my body remembered before my mind did.

I stood still for a moment, breathing.

Then the music came on.

Slow at first.

Unsteady, like it was waiting for me to decide who I wanted to be tonight.

And then I moved.

Not perfectly. Not for anyone watching.

Just movement honest, unpolished, mine.

Each step felt like something breaking open. Each turn like something I had been holding finally loosening its grip.

I wasn’t performing.

I was releasing.

The girl I had buried in silence, in expectations, in years of being small she was here again, not asking for permission this time.

No audience.

No judgment.

Just truth in motion.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was escaping myself.

I felt like I was returning.

My name is Xamira Vale.

And I’m starting to remember who the hell that is.