It hurts...
Sarah’s POV:
2 years ago...
A calm winter evening...
Anna and I had been playing for hours—a chaotic game of tag that had devolved into us just spinning until the world tilted. We were younger then, our hearts light and our biggest worry being the grass stains on our favorite jeans.
"I win!" I’d gasped, collapsing onto a weathered wooden bench.
"Only because I tripped over my own feet!" Anna teased, her face flushed and bright.
But our laughter died down when we saw him. A man was slumped against the base of a massive oak tree, his movements clumsy and his head lolling. The sharp, bitter scent of cheap whiskey drifted toward us even from a distance.
I stood up, my instincts already pulling me forward. "He looks sick, Anna. We should help."
Anna grabbed my sleeve, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief. She looked at me as if I’d suggested we pet a stray wolf. "Sarah, are you mad? He’s drunk! He might be dangerous. Let’s just go home."
"He’s someone’s dad, Anna. Or someone’s son," I said, gently unlinking her fingers. "Stay here."
I didn't go to him directly. Instead, I ran to the edge of the park and shouted for Mr. Henderson and our neighbor, Mark, who were chatting by the gate. Together, we approached the man. He wasn't a monster; he was just a middle-aged man who had clearly hit rock bottom, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow.
As the neighbors helped him onto his feet and offered him some water, the man looked at me and Anna. His voice was shaky, but his "Thank you, girls" was the sincerest thing I’d ever heard.
As we walked away, Anna was quiet, her gaze fixed on the ground. I nudged her shoulder with mine. "See? Just because he’s drunk doesn't mean he’s a bad man. Sometimes people are just lost."
Anna looked at me, the fear in her eyes finally melting into a soft, thoughtful understanding. She nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I guess you're right, Sarah. Not everyone is a villain."
Back to present...
In my dorm room, I stared at the "Resort Ledger" on my laptop screen. Back then, I believed everyone could be saved with a little help and some neighbors. Now, I’ve lost my best friends because I tried to be the hero.
I wondered if Anna was still making two cups of tea, or if she finally realized that some people—like the ones on this flash drive—actually are the villains.
Nineteen feels a lot like staring at a blinking cursor at 3:00 AM. My dorm room is a graveyard of caffeine pills and printed transcripts from the resort ledger, but the "Big Story" feels heavy and bitter without anyone to argue with about the lead. I’m the star of the journalism program, the one the professors call "relentless," yet every time I find a breakthrough, I instinctively reach for my phone to text the group chat.
Then I remember.
The chat has been silent for five months.
I miss Samson’s "well, actually" corrections and Michael’s annoying habit of making fun of my typos. I have the truth, but turns out, you can't grab a celebratory pizza with a flash drive.
