ZOE
“Come home.”
That’s what Preston said last week. Two words. Simple. Direct. Loaded with enough emotional shrapnel to take me out completely.
I haven’t been home in years. Since freshman year.
At first, it wasn’t my choice—Preston and Dad made sure of that. They didn’t fund my flights, held onto my passport like I’d try to escape back to something. Someone. I didn’t understand it then.
After the accident, everything felt off. Like there was a piece missing, and no one wanted to tell me where it went. Just endless hospital visits, therapy sessions, and cryptic looks that never gave me anything solid.
I also have a scar on my stomach.
A bullet, they said. An accident, they told me. But no one ever filled in the blanks. Just vague reassurances, like I wasn’t supposed to ask que
