LILA WHITMORE.

OREGÓN-PORTLAND.

PAST.

꘎♡━━━━━━━♡꘎

The house is a wreck. Not the kind of chaos left behind by children or a sudden storm—this destruction feels deliberate, like something inside these walls finally snapped under pressure and shattered into pieces. A lamp lies broken near the fireplace, its glass scattered like frozen raindrops across the wooden floor. Pillows from the couch are strewn about as if someone had searched for something that wasn’t there. Papers—bills, old drawings, notes I once wrote to myself—are scattered like forgotten thoughts. The silence is thick, not peaceful, but tense, the way the air feels before a thunderstorm. No one has screamed yet, but the damage speaks louder than any shout.

I stand in the middle of it all, my breath shallow, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape. My chest tightens with every second I stay still. There’s an ache growing behind my ribs, a weight pressing down like wet sand. I can feel it—the fear crawling up my