Prologue
Things She Doesn't Talk About
There were things Zara didn’t talk about anymore.
Not to her clients while their color processed, when the air filled with idle chatter and the scent of bleach and lavender shampoo. Not when someone leaned back in her chair and started in with the easy rhythm of gossip, their voice muffled under foils, expecting her to join in with laughter and stories of her own. Not in text messages she never sent but sometimes typed out just to delete, little confessions blinking on a blue screen before she erased them. Not even to herself not really, not out loud.
She didn’t talk about the way she used to tense when her phone rang after dark, muscles tightening like a trap had been sprung. How her hand would hover over the glowing screen, not because she didn’t know who it was, but because she already did. She didn’t talk about the panic that spread like wildfire when she ignored the call and the silence stretched too long afterward. She didn’t admit not even in a whisper that sometimes the silence was worse than the shouting.
She didn’t talk about the locks on her door, either. Three of them, lined up like soldiers. Not because she didn’t trust people, but because she knew better than to trust hope. She didn’t talk about how she sometimes stood at the door after securing the last bolt, her forehead pressed against the cool wood, her breath uneven, waiting for her heartbeat to calm down before she turned away.
And she definitely didn’t talk about the dreams.
The ones thick with static and flickering lights, with footsteps rushing down hallways that never ended. Dreams where slammed doors echoed like thunder and left her throat raw when she woke, though she hadn’t screamed. Dreams that left her staring at the ceiling long after dawn, eyes wide open, sunlight pooling across the sheets like an accusation that she’d barely survived another night.
She didn’t talk about Marcus.
She didn’t say his name.
Not in casual conversation. Not with her friends when they asked if she was seeing anyone. Not in the notes she never kept or the prayers she wasn’t sure anyone was listening to. Not even in her head.
Because saying his name made him real again. Gave him breath and shape and teeth.
And she’d worked too damn hard to forget how he sounded when he was sweet, how he smelled when he leaned in close, how easily he could turn her into someone small without ever raising his voice. How he could leave her doubting herself with nothing more than a look.
So instead, she focused on what she could control.
She washed towels until they smelled like lemon and heat. She swept hair from the floor until the tiles gleamed. She cut even parts, steady hands never betraying the tremor that sometimes lived beneath her skin. She made sure the cash box balanced at the end of each day, even if she counted it three times just to be sure. She checked the thermostat twice, sometimes three times, like comfort could be measured in degrees. She scrubbed the mirrors until her reflection blurred until she could almost believe she was someone else. Someone stronger.
Clients came. Clients left.
Hair fell. Hair grew.
And she stayed busy.
The kind of busy that looks like healing if you squint. The kind of busy that earns polite nods and “you’re so strong”s. The kind of busy that keeps you from noticing the cracks until something slips through them.
And for a while, it worked.
Until Jake.
Until the man with dirt on his hands and something calm in his voice walked in and looked at her like she wasn’t broken glass. Like she was a whole damn window sunlit and worth seeing through. Until his quiet steadiness unsettled her more than her own loneliness ever had. Because loneliness was predictable. Safe, in its own jagged way. Jake wasn’t. He was possibility an open field after years of walls.
She noticed the way his laugh sat easy in his chest, like it had roots. The way his eyes lingered, not like a spotlight, but like a man who wanted to see what was already there instead of tearing it apart to get to the center. She noticed that when he said her name, it didn’t sound like a warning.
And then Marcus showed back up.
With his pretty lies. His practiced charm. That same old smirk that reminded her what fear tasted like. How it could rise in your throat without warning, hot and metallic, making the air thinner and the world smaller. He had a way of folding time, of making years of distance feel like they’d never existed at all. One look and she was twenty-four again, dizzy with the weight of loving him and terrified of the price.
Now Zara’s got choices.
She can keep quiet.
Keep folding towels and checking locks and pretending the past can’t find her here. Keep playing the role of the survivor everyone applauds from a distance without ever asking what it costs.
Or she can finally speak.
Let it out. Name it. Burn it down.
But speaking is dangerous. Speaking makes it permanent. Speaking makes it impossible to pretend it never happened. And once the words are out, they can’t be gathered back.
Either way, something’s coming undone.
And this time, she’s not so sure she can do it alone.
