Chapter 1: The Line in Permanent Ink

When I was arguing with my childhood friend, he slapped me in front of everyone when he lost it.

Even now, remembering the sharp sting and the hush that fell over the room, I feel a dull ache in my chest. It wasn't just a slap—it was a line drawn in permanent ink.

That day, I deleted all his contact information.

It took me three tries to erase his number from my phone, my hand trembling over the screen. His name, the shared emojis, every photo together—gone in one swipe, like erasing part of my own history.

Everyone was in disbelief. Derek and I had grown up together, and I’d liked him since I was a kid, chasing after him for a full nine years.

People at school whispered about us. Teachers, friends, even my neighbors—no one thought we could really break apart. They all thought we’d end up together, the boy and girl next door, the kind that show up at every small-town wedding slideshow.

"Why, Natalie? Just because of that slap?" he asked, confused.

He looked at me like I was an unsolvable equation, like I’d changed the rules of the game in a way he couldn’t understand. His voice was raw, almost pleading, as if this couldn't possibly be the real reason.

"Yes. Just because of the slap," I replied, completely serious.

I stared straight at him, not flinching. The silence between us was heavy—like the quiet before a storm in late summer, so thick you can hardly breathe.

When Derek slapped me across the face, I was too stunned to react at first.

It was as if time slowed—the fluorescent lights flickered, the smell of dry-erase markers and old textbooks thick in the air—and the sound echoed off the cinderblock walls, everyone frozen mid-sentence, their faces a blur of shock.

With a dull "smack," I staggered, my head buzzing from the blow.

My mind went blank, the world swimming around me as I struggled to process what just happened. The metallic taste of adrenaline filled my mouth.

My left cheek was first hot, then burning.

It felt like someone had pressed a curling iron to my skin, the heat pulsing in waves. Even my ear rang with it, picking up the tiniest shift of movement in the silent room.

I covered my face and looked at him in a daze.

My hand shook, fingertips pressed to my cheek. I couldn't seem to move my feet. My eyes stung, but I refused to let the tears fall—not here, not in front of him.

My childhood friend, Derek, had slapped me in front of everyone while I was arguing with the new transfer student.

His face was twisted with anger, but underneath, I saw the briefest flicker of regret. Still, it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a hard set to his jaw.

Derek seemed to realize what he’d done—his expression froze for a moment, but then he masked it with anger and impatience.

He squared his shoulders, jaw clenched. It was the same look he got when he lost a basketball game or flunked a quiz—like lashing out was easier than facing the mess he made.

"Don’t make a scene, Nat. Take your seat!"

His voice was sharp, not even a trace of softness left. He wouldn’t look at me, focusing instead on a spot above my head. It felt colder than the slap itself.

Someone in the class let out a low snicker, but most people just watched silently.

The hush was electric—like the whole room had become a stage and I was standing center spot, under a spotlight. Somewhere in the back, someone muttered, "Damn," and our homeroom teacher, Ms. Ramirez, snapped, "Enough!" but no one moved.

Lauren, standing next to Derek, played with her beautiful chestnut curls and clicked her tongue.

She smirked, her nails perfectly manicured, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. The way she looked at me was like I was a bug she could squash with her heel.

"Hey, D, what are you doing? Can’t you see your little princess is about to cry?"

She drawled the words, stretching "princess" out like it was a punchline. Her friends giggled, the sound grating like chalk on a blackboard.

Derek’s voice turned even colder after hearing that.

He glared at me, as if daring me to prove her right. I could feel the wall between us rising, brick by brick.

"Natalie, if you want to cry, go home and cry! This is school, not a place for you to play the princess or drama queen whenever you want."

The words hit harder than the slap. I felt my dignity shrivel, the heat of humiliation crawling up my neck. The silence from the rest of the class was deafening—no one wanted to get involved.

A mix of shame, hurt, and anger flooded me, and tears welled up before I could stop them.

I bit my lip, but it was useless. The tears spilled over, blurring my vision. I hated myself for crying in front of him, in front of everyone. But I couldn't hold it back.

With the laughter of a group of boys behind me, I ran out of the classroom.

Their laughter followed me down the hall, echoing through the linoleum-tiled corridor like a bad memory you can't shake. The sneaker squeak, the crackle of the PA in the distance, even a custodian’s bucket rolling by—all of it felt too loud.

I didn’t know where to go—I didn’t want to go to class, but I couldn’t stay and face those people either.

My feet carried me past the rows of blue lockers, into the girls' bathroom. I leaned over the sink, splashed cold water on my face, but nothing could wash away the sting. I stared at my reflection in the scratched-up mirror, willing myself to disappear.

The truth is, Derek had never had much patience for me, but this was the first time he’d ever hit me.

He'd gotten annoyed, sure, and sometimes snapped, but he'd always come around. This time, it was different—like a door slammed shut and locked on the inside.

Not just him. This was the first time in my life anyone had ever slapped me.

It was a line I never thought would be crossed—not by him, not by anybody. I didn’t know yet that the office would follow up the next day, or that I’d overhear the dare that made it worse. All I knew was that something inside me broke, quietly, with a finality I didn't know I could feel at seventeen.