Mum made a noise that wasn’t language.
It tore out of her like something pulled from the gut.
She lurched forward. Dad caught her elbow automatically — not restraining, just keeping her upright — and the touch seemed to offend her, like no one had the right to steady her.
“Move,” she choked, not at him exactly, more at the universe. “Move— please—”
The room was small and too bright.
Skye lay on the bed beneath a white sheet pulled up to her chest. Her face was clean. Her hair had been brushed back carefully, like someone had taken their time.
She looked like she was sleeping.
Smaller than she ever had.
Mum froze.
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For one fraction of a second, the nurse in her noticed details without permission: the angle of the sheet, the stillness of the chest, the way the room smelled clean but couldn’t clean this.
Then the mum in her took over entirely.
“No,” she breathed. It came out as if she’d forgotten how to shape the word. “No— no, no, no—”
She moved in three unsteady steps and folded over Skye like her body had been built for exactly this kind of grief.
She clawed at the sheet, then stopped herself as if she’d realised — too late — that Skye wasn’t cold because of fabric.
Her hands went to Skye’s hair, her cheeks, her shoulders, stroking too fast, too frantic, like touch might jump-start something.
“Oh my baby,” Mum sobbed, voice breaking into pieces. “Oh, Skye— I’m here— I’m here— I’m sorry— I’m so sorry—”
She pressed her face into Skye’s hair and rocked.
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A raw sound kept coming out of her — not neat crying, not cinematic — a mother’s body trying to reject the impossible by making noise.
Dad stayed at the foot of the bed.
He didn’t touch Skye.
He looked at her the way he looked at paperwork he couldn’t fix — still, focused, already defeated.
His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, precise, controlled, useless.
“She was supposed to be home,” Dad said quietly.
Not accusing. Not angry.
As if stating it might make it true again.
Tessa stood against the wall, skin buzzing like it didn’t belong to her.
You Wanted To Be Independent.
Fine.Walk
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I Can’t Be Everything For You
I Deserve A Life Too
The words replayed without permission, sharp and exact, like a recording that wouldn’t stop.
The doctor cleared his throat gently.
“The impact caused severe trauma,” he said. “There was a head injury, and significant internal bleeding. Even if help had arrived immediately...”
He let the sentence trail off.
“There was nothing else we could do.”
Mum lifted her head slowly.
Her face was soaked. Her eyes were wild.
Medical knowledge flickered there — the part of her that understood head injury, internal bleeding, resus — and then drowned under something older and more violent than knowledge.
“What did she feel?” Mum asked, voice shredding on each word. “Was she— was she scared? Did she know? Did she—”
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The doctor hesitated, and that hesitation was its own answer.
“We believe she lost consciousness very quickly,” he said, careful. “It would have been very fast.”
Mum nodded, violently, as if she could hammer the information into place. As if fast could be a mercy that didn’t feel like an insult.
She smoothed Skye’s hair back from her forehead with a trembling hand.
“Skye,” she whispered.
The name landed in the room and stayed there — correct, and far too late.
Tessa flinched — hard — like the sound had struck bone.
“I should have been there,” Tessa said suddenly.
The words tore out of her. Ugly. Unplanned.
“I was supposed to walk her home,” she said, and her voice collapsed. “I was supposed to— I said I would—”
Mum’s head turned.
For a moment Tessa thought she was going to get the scream she’d been waiting for.
Instead, Mum stared at her like she was seeing her properly for the first time — not her confident eldest, not her problem child, not her teenager who mouthed off — but an eighteen-year-old girl with blood on her jeans and a dead sister behind her eyes.
Mum’s mouth opened.
It took three tries for sound to come out.
“Tess,” she stuttered, and it wasn’t accusation — not yet — it was the beginning of something that might become accusation if it kept living.
“You—” Mum’s breath hitched. “You were— she was waiting—”
The words wouldn’t land anywhere. They just fell.
Dad stepped closer then.
He placed one steady hand on Tessa’s shoulder — firm, grounding, the way he used to when she was small and afraid of storms.
Tessa crumpled under the touch like her bones had finally remembered they were allowed to.
She slid down the wall to the floor, knees pulled to her chest, breath coming in too fast.
Mum made another broken sound and folded back over Skye, as if choosing one child to hold because she couldn’t hold both.
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Dad stood there, hand still on Tessa, eyes fixed on the bed.
His face didn’t do much.
But his throat worked, once, like he was swallowing something too big.
His daughter was dead.
And nothing — no scanning, no planning, no steadiness — could fix it.
Outside the room, the hospital kept moving. A distant laugh. A trolley wheel. A door opening and closing.
The world — impossibly — kept going.
⸻
It was after midnight by the time Tessa realised she was no longer at the hospital.
The fluorescent lights had stopped. The smell of disinfectant was gone. The screaming in the corridors had faded into something distant and unreal, like a memory she wasn’t allowed to touch yet.
Someone had driven her.
She never found out who suggested it.
She remembered Dad standing very still, one hand braced against a wall like he’d forgotten how gravity worked. She remembered Linda making a sound that wasn’t a word and wasn’t stopping. She remembered a nurse pressing something warm into her hands—wipe them, love—and the blood smearing instead of coming away.
After that, things happened without her consent.
A coat over her shoulders.
A car door opening.
Cold air slicing across her face and making her blink.
She sat where she was put. She moved when the car stopped because the ground was suddenly there, solid and unavoidable beneath her feet.
Jolie’s house glowed at the end of the drive—windows lit, curtains half-drawn, the porch light buzzing faintly. It looked warm in a way that felt wrong, like it belonged to a different version of the world. One where people were still arguing about homework and who’d used the last of the milk.
Tessa stood on the step longer than made sense.
She wasn’t knocking.
She wasn’t leaving.
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The door opened anyway.
Jolie’s mum froze when she saw her.
Not startled. Not confused.
Just... understanding.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, Tessa.”
Tessa opened her mouth to answer. Her legs gave out instead.
Jolie’s mum caught her without hesitation, arms firm, steady, pulling her inside before the cold could follow. The door shut behind them—not loudly, not dramatically—just the soft, ordinary click of a latch finding its place.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said, guiding Tessa forward. “You’re here.”
That was all it took.
The sound that came out of Tessa wasn’t crying at first. It was sharper than that—ragged, animal, tearing its way up from somewhere she hadn’t known existed. She clutched at Jolie’s mum’s jumper and screamed into her shoulder, loud and uncontrolled, her body emptying itself all at once.
She didn’t apologise.
She didn’t stop.
Jolie’s mum held her anyway. One hand braced between her shoulder blades, the other pressing firmly against her back, like she was keeping her upright by force of will. She smelled faintly of washing powder and burnt toast.
“I know,” she murmured, again and again. Not rushing it. Not trying to fix it. “I know.”
A radiator clicked somewhere behind them. The house settled around its own quiet.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs.
Jolie stood halfway down, hair loose, eyes wide and glassy, still in the clothes she’d worn earlier that evening. She took in Tessa’s face—the shaking, the raw sound still breaking loose—and something in her expression folded inward.
Her mum looked up. “Take her upstairs,” she said gently. “I’ll make some tea.”
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Jolie nodded, unsure, and reached for Tessa’s hand. Tessa followed because following was easier than choosing.
Upstairs, the bedroom felt intrusive in its normality.
Fairy lights glowed along the wall. A hoodie lay draped over the back of a chair. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and fabric softener. A half-empty mug sat on the desk, ringed with a pale coffee stain.
Grief didn’t belong here.
But Tessa did.
She sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a hoodie that wasn’t hers, her hands twisting the sleeves again and again like they didn’t know what to do without blood on them.
Jolie hovered, then sat beside her, leaving a careful gap.
“I’m so sorry,” Jolie said quietly. “I don’t know what—”
“You don’t have to,” Tessa interrupted. Her voice sounded thin, like it had scraped itself raw. “Please.”
Jolie nodded, swallowing.
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, just heavy.
Tessa’s thoughts slid sideways. White light. Skye’s hair brushed back. The sheet pulled up too neatly. I should’ve walked you home. The words pulsed in time with her heartbeat, relentless.
She turned suddenly and kissed Jolie.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t planned. It was desperate—mouth pressed too hard, breath uneven, like she was grabbing onto something solid before she slipped completely out of herself.
Jolie stiffened.
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For a fraction of a second, panic flared—wrong, this is wrong—and Tessa pulled back, shaking.
“I— I’m sorry—”
Jolie didn’t pull away.
She kissed her back, carefully. Not deep. Not demanding. One hand came up to Tessa’s shoulder—not pulling her closer, not pushing her away—just there. Anchoring.
Tessa leaned into it again, needing the pressure, the warmth, the undeniable proof that someone else was breathing right now. That the world hadn’t stopped entirely.
They didn’t talk.
Tessa rested her forehead against Jolie’s, eyes closed, breathing in uneven counts she barely remembered how to do. In. Out. In. Out.
Later, the lights were off.
The house had gone quiet—not asleep, just waiting.
Tessa lay awake beside Jolie, staring into the dark. Jolie’s back was warm against her arm, solid and real. That helped.
And it didn’t.
Her chest tightened—not guilt exactly. Something heavier. Something that would wait.
She didn’t know what this meant. She didn’t know what it would turn into. She only knew she couldn’t be alone tonight.
Downstairs, a floorboard creaked softly as Jolie’s mum moved through the kitchen.
Outside, the streetlight hummed.
Somewhere very far away—or impossibly close—Tessa could still hear the echo of a voice saying we did everything we could.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep didn’t come.
———
The Next Day..
They were herded out of lessons without explanation.
Teachers stood in doorways instead of teaching, faces too tight, eyes rimmed red like they’d already used up their private reactions somewhere else. No one told them to bring bags. No one told them to hurry. Just “Assembly. Now.” repeated down the corridors in voices that didn’t quite hold.
The main hall smelled of floor polish and damp coats. Rows of plastic chairs scraped loudly as students filed in, the noise too sharp for a room that felt like it was supposed to be quiet. Someone laughed at the back—an automatic, stupid sound—and then stopped abruptly when no one joined in.
Tessa walked in between Jolie and Amelia.
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Jolie’s hand found hers without looking. Amelia took her other side, fingers curling around her wrist, grounding, deliberate. None of them spoke. None of them mentioned last night. The memory sat there anyway—heavy, unspoken, another thing they didn’t know what to do with yet.
Tessa felt hollowed out. Like she was walking inside her body instead of wearing it.
They sat near the front. Too near. Tessa hadn’t chosen it. A teacher had guided them there with a hand on her shoulder that lingered half a second too long. Sympathy. Recognition. Shared knowledge.
She hated it.
The hall continued to fill. Ben Hartley shuffled in with his year group, glasses taped at the bridge, eyes darting around in confusion. He looked tired. Pale. He hadn’t cried yet. He didn’t know.
That made Tessa’s chest tighten painfully.
Teachers lined the edges of the room instead of sitting. Mr Clarke stood with his arms folded too tightly, jaw clenched. Mr Evans kept rubbing his hands together like he couldn’t get them clean. Someone passed out tissues before anyone had started crying, which felt like admitting defeat early.
The murmur of voices didn’t stop all at once. It thinned. Frayed. Eventually fell into a brittle hush broken only by coughing and the hum of the lights overhead.
The principal stepped onto the small stage.
He looked wrong without his usual stiffness. His suit jacket hung open. His tie wasn’t straight. When he reached for the microphone, his hand shook enough that it squealed briefly, feedback slicing through the room.
A collective flinch.
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“I—” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. Tried again.
“I know you’re all wondering why you’re here,” he said. His voice wasn’t steady. He didn’t try to make it sound like it was. “Why you aren’t in lessons. Why... things feel off this morning.”
A few students shifted. Someone sniffed loudly.
He looked out over the hall, eyes catching on faces, then sliding away. He paused when his gaze landed on Tessa. Just for a fraction of a second too long.
His breath stuttered.
“Last night,” he said, quieter now, “there was a serious incident in our community.”
A rustle moved through the room. A chair leg scraped. Someone whispered, “What’s going on?”
The principal swallowed.
“We lost two students.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They rippled.
Confusion first.
Then disbelief.
Then sound.
Crying didn’t erupt immediately. It crept in—sharp inhales, a strangled sob near the back, someone covering their mouth like that might stop it becoming real.
“Their names,” the principal said, voice breaking hard on the word, “were Skye Harper and Lexi Kingsley.”
The sound didn’t come all at once.
It wasn’t one sound. It was dozens—gasps, cries, someone saying no over and over, too fast to be useful. A girl near the aisle folded forward, sobbing into her knees. One of Lexi’s friends let out a wail that cut through everything else, high and raw.
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Ben made a sound like he’d been punched.
“No,” he said, out loud, before he could stop himself. His chair tipped as he stood halfway, then sat again, shaking violently. Tears streamed down his face without warning, his hands pressed to his mouth like he couldn’t hold himself together otherwise.
Teachers moved instinctively.
Mr Clarke knelt beside avoiding his eyes. Mr Evans crossed the aisle to another student already crying, hand rubbing slow circles between their shoulders. Someone passed Ben a tissue that disintegrated almost immediately.
Tessa didn’t move.
The room tilted.
Skye.
Skye.
Skye.
Her name echoed in her head, too loud, too clean.
She heard herself make a sound—small, broken, not quite a word. Jolie tightened her grip instantly, thumb pressing into the back of Tessa’s hand. Amelia leaned closer, shoulder firm against hers, holding her upright without saying anything.
Everywhere she looked, students were crying.
Not whispering.
Not politely distressed.
Actually crying.
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A boy from Skye’s year stared at the floor, shaking his head like he could undo it. A girl Tessa recognised from the library sobbed openly, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Someone whispered, “She helped me with maths,” like it mattered. Like it proved something.
The principal raised a hand uselessly, then let it fall.
“Skye was one of those students every adult in this building knew,” he said, voice unsteady.
“Not because she was loud. Not because she caused trouble. But because people like Skye make themselves small — and teachers learn to notice that.”
He stopped, swallowing hard.
“She waited until rooms were quiet before speaking. She checked on other students before she checked on herself. And whether she realised it or not… she was looked after here.”
His voice broke.
“All of us did that. Or we tried to.”
Ben made a broken noise at that, folding in on himself as a teacher wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“She mattered,” the principal said, shaking now, not bothering to hide it. “She mattered to this school. To her peers. In ways we’re only just beginning to understand.”
More sobbing. Uncontrolled. Teachers moved constantly now, crouching, murmuring, offering water, hands, presence. Someone near the front had slid onto the floor entirely, overwhelmed.
“We lost two students,” he said. “Two lives, taken on the same night, in a way that should never happen.”
He paused, steadying himself.
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“Skye Harper and Lexi Kingsley were both part of this school. Both mattered. And both leave a space that cannot be filled.”
Some of Lexi’s friends clung to each other, crying hard, faces buried in hair and sleeves.
The principal wiped his face with the heel of his hand, unashamed.
“We will be sharing details of the funerals once the families are ready,” he said. “All students and staff will be welcome to attend. Counsellors are available today, tomorrow, and for as long as you need. You don’t need permission. You don’t need to explain.”
He looked out at them, eyes wet, red.
“This is... unfair,” he said quietly. “And there is no right way to feel about it.”
The hall was no longer holding together. It couldn’t. Grief leaked everywhere—through sobs, through shaking hands, through teachers who had given up pretending they were okay.
Tessa stared straight ahead.
Everyone was looking at her now.
Not obviously. Not cruelly.
But she could feel it—the awareness spreading as understanding clicked into place. Skye Harper. Shows up late sometimes. Quiet girl. Always with her notebook. Tessa’s sister.
Jolie leaned in and whispered, “I’ve got you,” so softly it barely existed.
Tessa didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
The world had cracked open in public, and there was no way to put it back together.
Not here.
Not now.
Not ever.
And above them, the lights hummed on, indifferent, while teachers kept holding students who didn’t know how to stop crying.
ns216.73.216.147da2
and then Add to home screen.