By the time prom arrived, I told my mom I wasn’t going.
Before the crash, my life had been ordinary in the best possible way. I worried about grades. I worried about boys. I worried about prom photos.
Afterward, I worried about being seen.
By the time prom arrived, I told my mom I wasn’t going.
She stood in my doorway holding the dress bag and said, “You deserve one night.”
“I deserve not to be stared at.”
“Then stare back.”
She helped me into my dress.
“I can’t dance.”
She stepped closer. “You can still exist in a room.”
That hurt, because she understood exactly what I had been doing since the accident—disappearing while still physically present.
So I went.
She helped me into my dress. Helped me into my chair. Helped me into the gym, where I spent the first hour near the wall pretending I was okay.
Then they drifted back toward the dance floor.
People came over in waves.
“You look amazing.”
“I’m so glad you came.”
“We should take a picture.”
Then they drifted back toward the dance floor. Back to movement. Back to normal life.
Then Marcus walked over.
I looked behind me because I truly thought he must be talking to someone else.
He stopped in front of me and smiled.
