Page 20

I don’t know how long I’ve been in the Pink Room when Nathan walks in, grinning. Time here is elastic, pulling me apart, snapping back with no warning, leaving me dizzy. I’ve read every book on the shelf at least ten times, the words eroding into hollow shapes I trace with my eyes just to fill the space. The bed is better than the cage—enough room to stretch without folding into origami—but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m dissolving, piece by piece, into nothing.

The sound of the door unlocking slices through the fog. My head jerks toward it, then lowers instinctively as he steps inside. My shoulders hunch, my hands knot into themselves, as if I could shrink small enough to disappear into the fibers of the rug.

Something flutters to the floor in front of me. It lands softly, harmlessly, but the air in the room shifts, sharpens. I glance down, my breath catching.

It’s a missing person’s poster.

It’s me.

MIA BALLARD 133

The bold letters of my name hit me first. Then my picture, taken at work, the version of myself that looks like a stranger now. My eyes stare back at me, tired but whole, framed by details: my height, my weight, the mole near my left ear, the scar from the bike accident when I was twelve. My chest tightens as the realization crashes over me, cold and jagged.

Nathan sighs, theatrical and heavy, yanking my attention back to him. “I thought I’d covered all my bases with you,”

he says, his tone casual, like he’s annoyed about a stain on his shirt.

I don’t speak. I can’t. My throat feels tight, my breath uneven.

“I know you don’t talk to your family, so they weren’t an issue,”

he continues, pacing slowly, like this is a story he’s been waiting to tell. “I wrote your landlord a letter. Said you were leaving the country. Even included four grand in cash—generous, right? Told him to toss or sell your stuff.”

He pauses, tilting his head as if waiting for applause, his eyes glinting with control.

I stare back, my chest rising and falling with shallow, frantic breaths. My hands clench into fists.

“But I missed something,”

he says, softer now, almost amused. “Your college friend. Kennedy.”

Her name lands like a blow, reverberating through the room. The pink walls close in, the sweetness turning sour. My chest aches with something sharp, unfamiliar—a flicker of hope tangled with despair. Kennedy. He knows about Kennedy.

Nathan studies my face, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Apparently, she’s been looking for you since you went missing six months ago.”

Six months.

The number unravels me, a thread pulled too tight. Six months of pink walls. Six months of nothing. The weight of it fills every corner of the room, pressing down on me. Tears spill, hot and unstoppable,

SHY GIRL 134

streaking my face. Nathan watches, his amusement crackling in the space between us.

“Luckily,”

he says, his tone light, conversational, “you didn’t tell her anything about me. I know because I checked your texts. You know, for someone who’s supposed to be your best friend, you didn’t tell her much.”

He chuckles, low and cruel. “If I’d known you two were so close, I would’ve written her a letter. Told her you

were off starting some fabulous new life abroad. Actually...”

He pauses, tapping his chin, “I still might do that.”

Guilt slams into me, sharp and relentless. I should’ve told her something. Anything. If I had, maybe she’d know. Maybe she wouldn’t still be looking.

Nathan crouches in front of me, his face inches from mine, triumphant and mocking. His voice drops, dark and cutting. “Not that it matters. The police aren’t taking your disappearance seriously. They think you ran off. Even your dad gave up. Sent a text saying he’d leave you alone—figured it’s what you wanted.”

The sobs come harder now, shaking my body as the poster blurs in front of me. It’s an accusation, a mirror, a monument to the version of me that’s vanished. Nathan rises, brushing off his hands like he’s finished tidying up.

“It’s amazing,”

he says, his tone breezy, almost impressed. “You disappear, and the world just moves on. You made it so easy for me.”

His words are knives, and I can’t stop bleeding. My chest heaves as the sobs tear through me, my tears pooling on the rug. Nathan’s smile fades slightly as he watches, his amusement dimming, replaced by something bored, disinterested. Without another word, he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

The deadbolt slides into place, final and cold.

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I stare at the poster, its details smudged by my tears. My face stares back, warped and distant. Kennedy is looking for me. Six months. She’s been looking for six months.

And she won’t find me.

YEAR TWO