Alexis' POV
I knew she found the note.
Vanessa tried to hide it her hesitation when I handed her the tea, the way her eyes lingered on me in class, like she was trying to read something between my ribs.
I didn't ask. I never do.
Because asking means admitting something's wrong.
And if there's anything I've learned, it's that silence is safer.
But when I saw her talking to Claire near the library, something inside me snapped like a frayed wire.
I hadn't spoken to Claire in almost a year. Not since the fire. Not since I killed everything between us.
And now Vanessa was talking to her.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I turned and walked the other way.
The fire started in the kitchen.
Not flames at first just the sharp scent of burning plastic. I was upstairs, playing music on my phone, headphones in. I smelled it before I heard it. I ran down the stairs and saw it: the stove, the curtains, the edge of Mom's sleeve. All glowing orange.
She screamed my name.
I froze.
It's like my body shut down. My legs wouldn't move.
She yelled again. Told me to run.
So I did.
I ran out the front door and didn't stop until I was across the street.
I stood there. Barefoot. Shaking. Watching.
I waited for her to follow me.
But she never came out.
I've replayed it a thousand times. If I had gone back just a few steps—could I have pulled her out? Or would we both be ashes?
Sometimes I think I deserve the answer.
Other times, I pray I never find out.
When Vanessa came into my life, she wasn't supposed to matter.
Just another quiet girl with tired eyes and bruised silences.
But then she offered me half her lunch on day one. She asked if I was okay. She noticed things others ignored.
And I hated her for it.
Because when someone sees you, really sees you, it's harder to pretend you're invisible.
Rose must have written that note.
It's the kind of thing she'd do. Sharp tongued, jealous. Still bitter that I shut her out.
She knew about the fire. She heard the rumors. Claire probably told someone, and that someone told her. Or maybe she read it in the paper, like everyone else.
It's all public now. My biggest shame, printed in bold letters:
Teen escapes house fire. Mother perishes. Father charged.
What the headlines didn't say was that I still hear her voice every night.
I skipped school the day after Vanessa talked to Claire. Told her I was sick. Truth was, I couldn't face her. Not knowing what she might now believe.
What if Claire told her everything?
What if she never talks to me again?
Part of me thought that'd be easier. Let her walk away before I disappoint her further.
But I couldn't let it go.
So after school, I waited near the library. I knew she'd pass by.
When she did, she didn't look surprised to see me. Just… tired.
"Can we talk?" I asked.
She nodded.
We walked together toward the empty art room. I knew no one would be there.
We sat across from each other, desks between us.
Vanessa folded her hands. "You're going to tell me the truth now, right?"
I hesitated. "What do you know?"
"I talked to Claire," she said. "I know about the fire. About your dad. Your mom."
I didn't breathe.
"I don't think you're a monster," she added. "But I need to hear it from you."
I stared at the floor for a long time. My hands shook under the desk.
"She told me to run," I whispered.
Vanessa leaned forward, barely blinking.
"I panicked. I froze. I left. I thought she'd follow."
I looked up, eyes burning.
"She didn't."
Silence.
Then: "That's not your fault."
"I didn't save her."
"You were a kid."
"I should've—"
"No," she interrupted gently. "Your father lit that fire. Not you."
Tears welled up, sudden and hot.
"I used to dream of being brave," I said. "Of getting her out. Of taking her away from him. But I never did. I stayed. I let it happen. And I don't know if that makes me weak, or a coward, or something worse."
Vanessa reached across the desk and took my hand.
"You're not weak," she said. "You survived. That matters."
I squeezed her hand like it was the only thing anchoring me.
For once, I didn't feel like I was drowning.
Later, we walked down the hallway in silence. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind where you don't need words because someone finally knows.
Before she turned to leave, Vanessa asked, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because I didn't want you to look at me the way everyone else does."
"How's that?"
"Like I'm broken."
"I don't."
I nodded. "But now you know."
"Yes," she said. "And I'm still here."
That night, I went home and sat on my bed with the box I'd been avoiding for months.
Inside were the only things I'd kept after the fire my mom's ring, a few charred photos, and her favorite recipe book.
I flipped to a stained page marked with a star.
Chocolate cake.
The same one I'd baked for Vanessa last week.
I ran my fingers over the ink, smudged and faded.
I remembered my mother humming as she baked. The smell of cocoa in the air. Her hand patting my head.
"You're going to be someone gentle," she once said.
I want to believe that's still possible.
Even if the fire took her. Even if I ran.
Maybe there's still something left to rebuild.
Diary Entry - Friday
(I don't usually write, but maybe I need to now.)
I told her.
And she didn't run.
She didn't judge. Didn't flinch.
She stayed.
I don't know what comes next. But I think I want to find out—with her.