Days passed. Maybe weeks. Time was a blur.
But something began to stir in her - a question.
Why?
Why did he do it?
Why did Max, the boy who once smiled like spring and held her hand like it mattered - become the predator?
Why her?
The thoughts didn't let her sleep. They didn't let her breathe. So one morning, still hollow but determined, she got up.
And she went to see him.
---
The Prison.
The room was grey, soulless.
He was brought in handcuffed, his smirk faded, his charm gone stale.
But his eyes - they still searched her face. Like he could still own her with a look.
She didn't flinch.
She sat across from him. Still. Unmoving.
Then she spoke.
"Why?"
He blinked, leaned back lazily. "Why what?"
"Why me? Why did you do it when you said you loved me?" Her voice cracked. "Was any of it real?"
Max shrugged. "It was fun while it lasted."
Her throat tightened. Her hands clenched under the table.
"You lied to me. You destroyed me."
He chuckled - chuckled. "You weren't the only one. Don't be so dramatic."
She wanted to scream. Cry. Throw the table.
But instead, her voice turned soft. "You said you loved me."
"I said what you needed to hear."
Silence.
Her tears finally came. Not soft ones. Heavy, aching sobs. But she didn't hide them. She let them fall. Right in front of him.
"I thought I'd die," she whispered. "I wanted to."
He leaned forward now, eyes sharp. "Then why didn't you? That would've made everything easier."
And just like that - something clicked inside her.
A switch.
A spark.
She stared at him - not with sadness anymore, but clarity.
"You wanted me to die."
He smirked. "Didn't think you'd get this far."
Her breath caught.
That was it.
That was the reason.
If he wanted her to disappear, then living wasn't just survival - it was defiance. If Max wanted her broken, then happiness was the loudest revenge.
She stood up. Calm. Steady. Still crying, but no longer shaking.
"You don't win," she said. "You don't get to live in my head anymore."
She turned to leave.
He called out behind her, "You'll never be the same."
She didn't stop. Didn't look back.
"No," she whispered to herself. "I'll be better."
---
Outside.
The sun felt warmer than it had in months. The sky had color again.
She walked home slowly. Breathing deeper. Seeing more.
Her family welcomed her like she had returned from war.
And maybe she had.
She hugged her mother tightly that night. Cried into her father's shoulder. Let her little brother braid her hair.
She wasn't okay. Not yet. But for the first time - she wanted to be.
She wanted to live.
Sometimes, the people who hurt us the most never care.
Sometimes, they leave us bleeding and expect us to bleed quietly.
But you know what?
They don't get to decide how our story ends.
You don't heal for them. You don't survive to prove anything.
You live because you deserve to be whole.
You fight not to forget - but to remember that you are bigger than every scar.
So cry.
Scream.
Break.
But rise.
Because you matter. And your joy will be your rebellion.