Twisted Vows

CHAPTER 6

Leah

I spent the next few weeks at Olivia’s apartment.

Olivia had been my best friend since high school — the kind of person who remembered birthdays, showed up early, and stayed late. Where I folded inward, she pushed outward. Where I hesitated, she acted. Her two-bedroom apartment was cramped and permanently cluttered, shared with her grandmother, who watched daytime talk shows at full volume and treated me like a fragile guest who needed feeding whether I admitted it or not.

It wasn’t home. But it was shelter.

Olivia slid a mug of coffee toward me and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” she said.

“I did,” I replied automatically.

She raised an eyebrow. “Half a granola bar doesn’t count.”

I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “I’m fine. I just… haven’t been that hungry.”

“You keep saying that.” Her voice softened. “Leah, you don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I’m not pretending,” I said quickly, then hesitated. “I just don’t want to be a burden.” The words came easily. I’d been practicing them my whole life.

Olivia’s expression flickered — hurt first, then resolve. “You’re not a burden. You’re my best friend.”

I nodded, staring down into the coffee. “I know. I just need to figure things out. I will.”

“You shouldn’t have to figure everything out alone,” she said.

I smiled, small and tired. “I’ve always kind of done that.”

She didn’t argue. She just reached out and squeezed my hand, firm and grounding.

“Okay,” she said. “Then we’ll figure it out together.” She didn’t offer solutions. She offered presence. It felt unfamiliar, and strangely harder to accept

The reality of being cut off settled in fast.

I tried to focus on college plans, on orientation emails and course catalogs, but every time tuition or books crossed my mind, anxiety coiled tight in my stomach. I had a handful of scholarships — enough to get me started, not enough to carry me through. And after my parents froze my accounts, I had nothing to fall back on. It wasn’t an oversight. It was a decision.

No safety net.

No quiet backup plan.

Olivia brewed coffee late into the night, sitting across from me at the narrow kitchen table while we scrolled through financial aid forms. She took notes. Made lists. Refused to let me spiral too far before pulling me back.

“You should apply for student work,” she said one morning over toast and eggs. “The library’s hiring. It’s flexible, and it helps with tuition.”

“I can try,” I said, though the words felt thin.

She smiled at me like that was enough for now.

Despite her efforts, a hollow ache followed me everywhere. I called my parents more times than I wanted to admit, my fingers trembling each time I pressed dial. Every call went to voicemail. My texts to Daniel and Lizzie were either left on read or ignored entirely.

Each silence felt deliberate.

Olivia’s apartment buzzed with ordinary life — the clatter of dishes, the hiss of the stove, her grandmother’s commentary drifting from the living room. But beneath it all, I felt painfully alone. Sometimes I sat on the couch with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen, waiting for it to light up.

It never did.

Late one night, I scrolled through old messages with my mother, memories surfacing uninvited. Dinners where Lizzie’s accomplishments filled the conversation. Sundays where Daniel talked through career plans while I listened quietly, grateful just to be included. I had always been present. I just hadn’t been seen. Loving them had never required being loved back.

The pattern was suddenly impossible to ignore.

Financial stress crept into everything. The scholarships barely covered tuition. Books were another matter entirely. I landed a part-time job at the campus library, scanning books and pointing students toward study rooms, my mind constantly tallying hours and expenses.

I tried to eat properly. I really did. But stress stole my appetite. Half-eaten sandwiches ended up in the trash. Olivia noticed, always gentle, always watching.

“Just one more bite,” she’d say softly.

I usually couldn’t.

Fatigue followed me from class to class. I smiled when spoken to. Answered questions when called on. Pretended I was fine. But beneath it all, I felt frayed and brittle, like one wrong move might splinter me completely.

Sometimes I caught glimpses of other students talking about family weekends or parents visiting campus. The envy surprised me with its sharpness. Belonging had always felt like something other people inherited easily.

I rarely called home anymore. When I did, the mix of hope and dread left my heart racing. They never answered.

One afternoon, I considered driving past the Lockhart estate. Just to see it. Just to remind myself it was real. The thought made my stomach twist, and I turned toward the library instead, shelving books until closing time, hiding in quiet.

Olivia’s grandmother stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, her gray hair pinned back neatly.

“Sit,” she said, already spooning food onto a plate. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m okay,” I said automatically.

Maggie turned, fixing me with a look that brooked no argument. “Everyone who says that isn’t.”

She set the plate in front of me and patted my shoulder. “Eat.”

I hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she said gently. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

Something in my chest tightened. I took a small bite, then another.

“There we go,” Maggie said, satisfied. “Skin and bones isn’t a good look on anyone.”

Olivia snorted. “She’s been impossible all week.”

“I’m not impossible,” I muttered.

Maggie pulled out a chair and sat across from me. “You don’t talk much,” she observed. “But you carry a lot.”

My throat tightened. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Maggie reached across the table and covered my hand with hers, warm and steady. “Honey, trouble comes whether you invite it or not. What matters is whether you eat dinner when it does.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. It felt strange in my chest. Fragile.

“You can stay as long as you need,” Maggie added, matter-of-fact. “No one gets thrown away in this house.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, afraid that if I spoke, I’d cry.

Later, curled beneath a worn quilt in the spare bedroom, I scrolled through photos on my phone. Lizzie’s graduation. Daniel’s award dinners. In nearly every picture, I was either at the edge or missing entirely.

I wondered if they noticed when I disappeared.

I told no one about the tightness in my chest. Or the way my legs sometimes shook beneath me. Or how the room tilted if I stood too quickly. Everyone expected me to recover. To move on. To be resilient.

I didn’t feel resilient.

But I was determined.

I would go to college. I would find a way. Even if it meant being tired. Even if it meant being hungry. If my family had never truly supported me, I would learn to support myself.

My body had been keeping score long after my mind told it not to.

One afternoon, that resolve began to falter. I sat in my Intro to Business lecture, staring at slides that refused to stay in focus. My head throbbed dully. I realized I’d skipped both breakfast and lunch. Skipping meals had started to feel normal. Necessary, even.

Heat crept up my neck. My skin turned clammy beneath my sweater. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing.

Just nerves. Just get through the hour.

The professor’s voice faded in and out. My heart pounded, loud enough to drown out everything else. I fumbled for my water bottle, managing a single shaky sip before dizziness swept over me.

Black spots bloomed at the edges of my vision.

“Leah?” someone whispered nearby. “You okay?”

I tried to nod. My head felt too heavy. The clicking of the projector drilled into my skull, each sound magnified and unbearable.

Another wave of nausea hit. My hands gripped the edge of the desk as the room narrowed, colors draining into gray.

I opened my mouth to ask for help.

Nothing came out.

The last thing I heard was my name, called with urgency, and then the floor surged upward, and everything went dark. It wasn’t the first time I’d disappeared, just the first time my body followed.