CHAPTER 7 – My Turn
1010 Words
Savannah didn’t cry. She wasn’t the kind of girl who fell apart over a boy. She was the kind of girl who reorganized her sock drawer, re-alphabetized her bookshelf, and deleted someone so completely from her search history that even her browser forgot he existed.
But tonight, her fingers hovered over a letter. Cream-colored envelope. Wax seal. Her name written in looping script she used to trace with the edge of her fingernail. It had lived in the top drawer of her desk, tucked beneath two SAT prep guides and one designer scarf she didn’t wear anymore.
It wasn’t a secret. It was just something she hadn’t been ready to look at. Until now.
She sat cross-legged on her bed. Desk lamp on. Lo-fi jazz in the background. Her room was warm wood and pale gold, color-coordinated down to the notepads. Everything had a place.
Except this.
She opened the letter.
His handwriting looked too elegant to be real. Tilted just enough to feel effortless. Romantic. The ink had smudged slightly near the bottom, like he’d rushed to seal it. That used to make her smile.
“You make everything feel slower. Softer. Like I’m safe inside a storm. When you’re in the room, it’s like nothing else exists.”
She had memorized that line. Let it tint everything that came after. She remembered the first time she read it—on the porch steps, afternoon sun across her legs, fingertips pressed to her mouth. She remembered thinking: This is what it feels like to be chosen.
Back then, she believed it.
He wore a thrifted denim jacket the day they met. Her cousin’s end-of-summer party. He looked slightly out of place. Just enough to be intriguing.
He offered her a drink. She declined. They ended up on the edge of the pool deck, sneakers almost touching. He asked her questions like he was waiting for the real answer.
“What’s your favorite word in Latin?”
“Lux,” she’d said. “It means light.”
“Makes sense,” he said. “You look like someone who glows with the right people next to you.”
She’d laughed. Felt seen.
He didn’t try to kiss her. That came later—after brunch with her church group, when he met her outside the gates of Saint Joseph’s. He brought her an iced tea.
“I remembered you said this brand tasted like childhood.”
He was wearing a button-down. Hair combed. He asked before leaning in. She hadn’t said no.
It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t electric. It was perfect. Measured. Intentional. The kind of kiss you could screenshot and send to your future self.
She told herself that meant it was real. That he was, too.
He quoted poetry. Let her lead. Asked about her test scores, her five-year plan, what kind of law she wanted to practice.
Back then, she thought it meant he cared. Now she knew better.
He hadn’t loved her. He had mirrored her. Reflected her best angles back to her with just enough depth to feel intimate. But it was never about her. It was about the version of him that came alive when she looked at him like he belonged.
She glanced back at the letter. The last line sat there like a bow on a lie.
“I think your voice could quiet the worst parts of me.”
She paused. There was something off. Too polished. Too perfect.
She opened her laptop. Typed it into Google.
Pinterest. Top result. 12.3k saves. Paired with a photo of a girl staring into the ocean.
Her breath caught.
She tried another line.
Again. Pinterest. Again. Tumblr. Again. A calligraphy Etsy print.
Four quotes. Four results. Not original. Not personal. Not hers.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.
But her chest tightened. A slow, invisible constriction—like someone had tied a ribbon just beneath her ribs and pulled.
He hadn’t even changed the font of his lies.
Savannah folded the letter. Slid it back into its envelope with practiced care. She slipped it into a file folder labeled Evidence.
Then, methodically, she crossed the room. Deleted the voice memo he’d sent the night of the Fall Formal.
“You were the best part of my week. I’m serious. You make me want to try.”
She had believed it. And maybe—maybe—he had too. But belief didn’t matter. Not anymore. Because now she could name it.
She wasn’t a girlfriend. She was a mirror. A muse. A clean surface for him to try on his better self.
She didn’t hate him. She hated what she let him mean.
What she gave him: structure, polish, presentation. What he took: her trust in her own ability to tell the real from the role.
She looked in the mirror. Pulled her hair into a low ponytail. Smoothed the flyaways. Dabbed gloss on her lips.
Control.
That was the word.
Not love. Not even power. He wanted control—over perception, over chaos, over memory. He pulled from each of them the parts he wanted most.
From her, he’d taken shine. Precision. Reputation.
He hadn’t just dated them. He’d assembled them.
She opened her closet. There, hanging in the back, was the dress she wore the night of their last date. Navy blue. Satin. Classic.
She slid it off the hanger. Held it in both hands. Then folded it neatly and placed it in the donation bag near her door.
Some endings didn’t need fire. Some just needed to be shelved.
She checked her phone one last time. No new messages.
She opened i********:. Scrolled back to the photo from the Fall Formal. There they were—arm in arm. Her smile exact. His head tilted just enough to suggest sincerity.
She cropped him out. Softened the filter. Adjusted the contrast.
Captioned it: You should’ve smiled while you had the chance.
Posted.
Then she turned off the light. Slid under her covers.
And that was it. Not revenge. Not forgiveness. Just… control.
Reclaimed.
- Writer
