I stayed at the hospital until they kicked me out at 2 AM.
Drove back to my hotel with the windows down because I needed air that didn't smell like antiseptic and fear. Slept three hours. Woke up to seventy-three notifications.
Something was wrong.
I could feel it before I even opened my phone. That particular dread that came from knowing the internet had decided you were today's villain.
I opened Instagram first. Amber's post was at the top of my feed. Posted six hours ago. Three hundred and forty-two likes and counting.
Praying for everyone affected by last night's tragedy. Sometimes our choices impact others in ways we don't expect. 💔🙏
The words were careful. Vague enough to maintain plausible deniability. Specific enough that everyone knew exactly who she was talking about.
The comments were worse.
"What happened?" "I heard Chase Donovan was in an accident." "Wasn't he dating that girl who just broke off her engagement?" "Some people bring chaos wherever they go."
My stomach turned. I kept scrolling. Couldn't stop myself even though every comment was a knife.
Someone tagged me—of course they did. Couldn't subtweet properly without making sure the target saw it.
The post was from Rachel. Girl I'd had exactly three conversations with in high school. Now apparently an expert on my life.
Some people leave destruction wherever they go. Pray for those caught in the crossfire. 🙏
Forty-seven likes. Comments full of people who "always knew something was off about her."
I switched to Facebook. Regional group for our town. Someone had already posted about the accident with a photo of the crash site. Yellow police tape. Twisted guardrail. The caption: "Local architect in serious accident. Thoughts and prayers."
The comments had devolved into amateur psychology.
"Wasn't he seeing Zoey Hale? The one who just ended her engagement?" "I heard they had a huge fight at the fundraiser." "My daughter said she's been causing drama with the campaign too." "Some relationships are just toxic."
That word. Toxic. Like I was a chemical spill instead of a person.
Mrs. Patterson—my old English teacher who used to write "promising writer!" on my essays—shared an article. "Recognizing the Signs of Toxic Relationships." Posted with the caption: "Important read for anyone navigating complicated situations."
She tagged the post with #MentalHealthMatters and #KnowTheSigns like she was performing some public service instead of participating in my public execution.
I closed the apps. Opened them again. Closed them. The cycle continued until my hands were shaking and my chest felt too tight.
The committee meeting was at six PM. I considered not going. Considered packing my shit and leaving right now. Four weeks early. Let them find someone else to finish the campaign.
Instead, I put on clean clothes and drove downtown like I was heading to my own execution.
The meeting room felt different when I walked in. Air thicker. Eyes sharper. Everyone stopped talking mid-sentence when they saw me.
I took my usual seat and pulled out my laptop. Pretended I didn't notice the way Jasmine wouldn't make eye contact. The way Marcus suddenly found his phone fascinating.
The empty chair next to me screamed louder than any accusation.
Marcus cleared his throat. "Let's get started. We have a lot to cover before the hearing."
He droned on about petition numbers and council member outreach. I took notes on autopilot. Wrote down words that didn't mean anything while my brain ran on a loop of every terrible comment I'd read that morning.
Someone shifted in their seat. The sound was too loud in the careful quiet.
Then I heard it—stage whisper from the back of the room. Not quite hidden. Definitely intentional.
"Guess she finally broke someone for real."
The words landed like a slap. My pen stopped mid-sentence. Everyone pretended they didn't hear it. Kept staring at their screens or notebooks or the fascinating pattern in the table grain.
My throat closed. Couldn't breathe right. The room tilted slightly.
That's when Miles stood up.
Everyone stopped. Because Miles hadn't contributed to a meeting in weeks. Just showed up, sat in the back, left early.
"That's enough."
His voice was quiet but carried. The kind of tone that demanded attention without asking for it. The room held its breath.
"We don't know what happened." He looked around. Made eye contact with every single person. "And none of us have room to judge anyone's relationship. So maybe focus on the actual work."
Silence. Complete silence.
Then Marcus cleared his throat. "Miles is right. We're here for the campaign. Let's get back to it."
The meeting continued. People started talking about voter data and outreach strategies like the last five minutes hadn't happened.
But something shifted. Miles didn't look at me. Didn't come over after. Just defended me and sat back down like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just publicly chosen my side when it would've been easier to stay silent.
When the meeting ended, people scattered fast. Nobody made eye contact. Nobody lingered for the usual post-meeting chitchat.
I was packing up my laptop when Miles appeared next to my chair.
"You good?" he asked.
"Why did you do that?"
He shrugged. "Because it needed to be said."
"You don't even like me anymore."
"Doesn't mean I want to watch them tear you apart." He picked up his bag. "Amber's playing a game. Making herself look like the concerned friend while painting you as the villain. It's calculated. And it's bullshit."
"You're dating her."
"I'm aware of the irony." His smile was tired. "For what it's worth? I hope he's okay. Chase. I hope you both figure it out."
He left before I could respond.
I sat in the empty meeting room staring at my closed laptop. My phone buzzed with three new Instagram notifications. I didn't check them. Already knew what they'd say.
Outside, the sun was setting. Painting the sky in colors too pretty for how ugly everything felt. I drove back to the hotel. Showered. Lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My phone lit up with a text. Unknown number.
This is Margaret. Chase is asking for you. Tomorrow. 10 AM if you can make it.
I stared at the message until it blurred.
Texted back: I'll be there.
Then I turned off my phone and let the dark swallow everything else.