Chapter 4 - Ella

I could feel them watching me.

Whispering.

Judging.

Everywhere I went, eyes followed. Some were full of pity, others with something sharper, something crueler.

I wasn't stupid. I knew what they were thinking.

She's not the first woman to go through something like this.

It could've been worse.

Why is she acting like her whole world just ended?

Daryl killed the guy. She's safe now. She should just move on.

As if it were that simple. As if I could snap my fingers and erase the feeling of Paul's hands on my skin. The sound of his voice in my ear. The press of his body against mine.

The more they whispered, the smaller I felt. The more they stared, the more I wanted to disappear.

Some people—mostly the women—looked at me with soft, pitying eyes, their hands grazing my arm in silent sympathy as I walked past. Others avoided looking at me at all, like acknowledging me would force them to confront the ugly truth that even in this new world, men like Paul still existed.

The worst were the ones who didn't bother to lower their voices.

I was walking home from the schoolhouse when I heard them.

Two women, standing outside one of the houses, speaking in hushed voices that weren't hushed enough.

"She hasn't been the same since she got back," one said, shaking her head. "Like she's just... vacant."

"What do you expect?" The other sighed. "After what happened—"

"But what happened? Really? I mean, it wasn't—"

Their voices cut off when they noticed me.

I didn't stop walking. Didn't acknowledge them. Didn't let them see the way their words cracked through my ribs like a hammer to glass.

I kept moving, my steps quickening, my chest tightening.

By the time I turned the corner, Carl was there. Waiting.

He fell into step beside me without a word, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze flicking toward me briefly before settling straight ahead.

He did that a lot now. Walked me home from the schoolhouse. Stuck close to my side whenever Daryl wasn't around. He never asked questions. Never pushed me to talk. Just... stayed.

I should've been annoyed by it. Maybe a part of me was.

But mostly, I was just relieved.

Carl didn't look at me like I was broken. He didn't pity me, didn't whisper behind my back. He didn't expect anything from me—didn't expect me to be anything other than what I was right now.

So I let him stay.

We reached the house, and I hesitated, my fingers twitching at my sides.

Carl tilted his head slightly, eyes unreadable. "You good?"

I wasn't.

I hadn't been good in a long time.

But I forced a nod anyway. "Yeah. Thanks for walking me."

He shrugged. "Anytime."

I turned toward the door, my stomach knotting at the thought of going inside.

Daryl would be there.

Waiting.

Trying.

He was patient, gentle, careful with his words, his movements, his distance. And I hated that I noticed all of it. Hated that I couldn't just fall back into his arms like I wanted to. Like I used to.

I hated that when I did close my eyes at night, I wasn't thinking about my husband.

I was thinking about hands that weren't his.

The bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down, pushing open the door, stepping inside, feeling Carl's lingering presence at my back.

Watching.

Waiting.

For me to fall apart.

The door shut behind me with a quiet click, sealing me inside the house—the house that was supposed to be my sanctuary, my safe place.

It didn't feel safe anymore.

It felt small.

Like the walls were closing in, like the air was too thick, like I was being watched even when I was alone.

Daryl was here. I could hear him moving around in the kitchen, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, the soft clink of a cup being set down. He wasn't loud, wasn't trying to push his presence on me. But I felt it anyway.

I stood frozen just inside the doorway, my fingers twitching at my sides, my chest tightening like a fist was squeezing around my lungs.

I should say something.

I should.

But I didn't know how.

I used to know. Talking to Daryl used to be easy, effortless. But now, it felt like every word that left my mouth had to be carefully measured, weighed down by the invisible distance between us.

I wasn't sure if the distance was mine or his.

Maybe it was both.

I let out a slow breath, forcing my feet to move, forcing myself further inside.

Daryl glanced up from where he sat at the table, his eyes flickering over me with something cautious, something restrained. His fingers curled around his mug, knuckles going white.

I knew he wanted to touch me.

I knew it was killing him that he couldn't.

That I wouldn't let him.

And that made the guilt coil in my stomach like a snake, ready to strike.

"Hey," he said, his voice low, careful. Like he was talking to a wounded animal.

Like he wasn't sure if I was going to flinch.

I hated it.

I hated what Paul had stolen from me. I hated that I had to think before I let my husband hold me, before I let myself feel safe in his arms.

I swallowed hard. "Hey."

Daryl nodded toward the table, his fingers tapping against the wood. "You eat yet?"

I shook my head. I wasn't hungry. Food felt like just another thing I had to force myself to get through, another thing I had to fake.

Daryl sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ella, I—"

He cut himself off, exhaling through his nose, gripping the edge of the table like he needed to steady himself.

I braced myself for the words, for whatever careful, patient reassurance he was about to give me.

"I love you," he said.

Simple. Quiet.

Heavy.

My throat tightened. I wanted to say it back. I wanted to mean it when I said it.

But something inside me was still locked up, still frozen in place.

Daryl's gaze flickered away for a second before settling back on me. "You need time. I get it."

I clenched my jaw, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.

"I don't know how to come back from this," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I don't know how to be normal again."

Daryl's face twisted, and for the first time, I saw it. The cracks in his patience, the pain beneath the surface. He wasn't okay either.

"I don't need you to be normal, Ella," he said, his voice rough. "I just need you to be here."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

I was here. Physically.

But my heart? My mind?

I wasn't sure if I'd ever get those pieces back.

And I didn't know how to tell him that.

The next day, class unfolded as it always did. I stood at the front of the room, going through the motions, my voice steady, my words clear. The children sat in their usual spots, eyes on me, pencils scratching against paper. But something was missing.

I wasn't her anymore.

I wasn't Happy Mrs. Dixon, the teacher who made jokes, who laughed with her students, who turned every lesson into something fun and engaging. I was just here, just existing, pushing through each subject with the same monotone efficiency.

The only one who still tried was Ian. He answered every question, volunteered for every example, his little brows drawn together with determination. He wanted to make me smile—I knew it as well as I knew the back of my own hand. And it broke me.

Because I couldn't.

I didn't even know how anymore.

When class ended, I exhaled slowly, bracing my hands on the desk as the children packed up and scurried out the door. I had a short break before the older kids, along with Sam, came in. I should have used it to breathe, to gather myself, but before I could even register the moment of silence, I noticed someone lingering.

Ben.

He was standing near the doorway, his small hands curled around the straps of his backpack, his gaze shifting between me and the woman who had just stepped inside.

His mother.

Molly? Mandy? Something with an M.

"Hey, Ella," she greeted, offering a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

I forced myself to return it. It was small, weak, barely there, but it was the best I could do. "Hey."

She hesitated, glancing at Ben, then back at me. "I just wanted to ask you something really quick, if that's okay."

I nodded, setting down the stack of textbooks in my hands. "Yeah, what's up?"

She gave another one of those friendly smiles, the kind I'd gotten used to lately. The kind that masked something else—concern, unease, maybe even irritation. Her fingers drummed against her leg, a telltale sign that whatever she wanted to say, it wasn't just small talk.

"I was just wondering about homework," she started, her voice light, but I could hear the tension underneath. "The kids haven't gotten any in about two weeks. And me and some of the other moms were talking, and we just wanted to know why. I know you've been through a lot—"

A quiet huff slipped out before I could stop it. Barely audible.

But she caught it.

Her jaw tightened, her posture shifting ever so slightly, like she was readying herself for an argument.

"What?" she asked, her tone hardening.

"Nothing," I muttered, shaking my head. I didn't want to do this right now. "I just haven't felt the need to assign homework. The kids are getting a good grasp on things in class and getting their work done."

She let out a small, breathy laugh—disbelieving, almost condescending.

"I mean, I get it," she said, tilting her head slightly. "But school should be consistent, don't you think? Especially in a place like this? I just think, given everything, it would be good for the kids to have structure."

Her words were careful, calculated, wrapped in false kindness.

What she really meant was: Don't let your personal problems interfere with our children's education.

What she didn't say, but what I could hear loud and clear, was: Just because something happened to you doesn't mean the rest of us should have to deal with the fallout.

I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to stay calm.

Because what I wanted to say—what was crawling up my throat—was something sharp, something biting, something that would let her know that she had no fucking idea what it felt like to wake up every morning with a weight so heavy on her chest that breathing felt like a chore.

That she had no fucking idea what it was like to walk down the street and hear whispers behind her back, to have people look at her like she was something fragile, something damaged, something to be pitied.

That she had no fucking idea what it was like to feel unsafe in her own skin.

But instead, I swallowed it all down, my nails digging into the desk behind me.

"I'll think about it," I said, my voice flat.

Molly/Mandy frowned slightly, as if she'd expected more. As if she'd expected me to agree, to nod along, to apologize.

But I didn't.

I was done apologizing.

"Well, they still need homework, Ella." She crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze narrowing. And just like that, the false sympathy was gone. Her mask slipped, revealing what she really thought. "We just want to make sure that if they're going to school, they're actually learning something and not just sitting here, watching you sulk all day."

Her words hit like a slap, sharp and stinging, cutting straight to the bone.

Depressed all day.

Like I was some kind of spectacle. A pathetic, fragile thing too broken to function, barely capable of doing my job.

I flinched, my breath catching in my throat, my vision tunneling in on the smug look on her face—the way her lips twisted in something almost pitying. Almost amused. Like I was wasting her time.

Like I was wasting everyone's time.

And that was when I saw him.

Carl.

Lingering by the stairs, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, his jaw locked in a way that told me he was barely holding himself back. His entire body was rigid, coiled like a spring, furious. He was glaring daggers at Molly—or Mandy, or whatever her name was.

I forced myself to swallow past the tightness in my throat, ignoring the way my hands trembled as I clenched them into fists at my sides.

"I'm telling you," I snapped, my voice sharper than I expected. "They aren't just sitting here. Ask your son. I'm teaching them day in and day out. It's my call if I assign homework. And last I checked, weren't you and the 'other moms' the ones bitching about how much homework I was assigning before I became depressed all day, as you so kindly put it?"

Her eyes darkened, her lips pressing into a thin, bitter line.

"Look," she said, voice going cold, clipped, like she was barely holding back from saying what she really wanted to. "Deanna put you in this job for a reason, and we expect you to do it. We trust you with our kids when we could just be doing it ourselves. I get that something bad happened to you, but let's not pretend it was as bad as it could have been—"

Carl moved fast. Too fast. One second, I was standing there, my mind reeling, my skin burning from the weight of Mary's words, and the next—he was in front of me. A solid barrier between me and the woman who had just sliced me open with nothing but her condescending tone and a few well-placed sentences.

I blinked, my throat closing up. I hadn't even realized he had been there.

Carl was seething, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white, his entire body wound like a spring ready to snap. His chest rose and fell in sharp, measured breaths, his stance tense, protective.

I had seen Carl angry before—but never like this. Never shaking with it. Never standing between me and someone else like a human shield, like he was daring her to try me again.

"Get out," he said, his voice low, steady. Dangerous.

Molly/Mandy scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, but I could see it—just for a second—the way her expression faltered, the way she took a half-step back.

"Excuse me, but I'm talking to her," she snapped, trying to recover, her voice dripping with indignation. "Not to some kid."

Carl didn't even blink. "Yeah? Well, you're done," he shot back, voice hard as steel. "Maybe you should keep your nose in your own damn business and be grateful you don't have to spend more time with your kid, since we all know you'd rather chug that bottle of wine you love so much, Mary."

Mary's face twisted with rage.

"How dare you—" she gasped.

"Get out." He repeated, his voice flat, unwavering. His finger lifted, pointing toward the door like a judge passing a sentence.

Mary's jaw clenched. Her face burned red, whether from embarrassment or fury, I wasn't sure, and I didn't care. She reached for Ben's hand and yanked him forward, her movements stiff and jerky as she stormed toward the door.

I watched them go, unable to move, unable to breathe.

The room felt too big. Too empty. My chest ached, my ears rang, my stomach twisted itself into knots so tight I thought I might be sick.

I wasn't even sure what I was feeling.

Rage?

Humiliation?

Exhaustion?

All of it.

None of it.

I felt numb.

Carl turned back to me, his face still burning with residual anger, but there was something else in his expression now—concern. His arms lifted slightly, like he was about to reach for me, but he hesitated.

I think that hurt most of all.

Carl had never hesitated before. Not with me.

"I'll tell the others that class is canceled," he murmured, his voice softer now, gentle. "Let's get you home."

Home.

I swallowed hard, the word sitting heavy on my tongue, because I wasn't even sure where that was anymore.

I nodded, swallowing down the lump in my throat as I moved to collect Ruby from the bassinet I had set up by my desk. She stirred slightly, her tiny face scrunching up, but she didn't wake. Her little fingers curled into my shirt as I held her close. I pressed a lingering kiss to her soft curls, inhaling the sweet scent of her, trying to calm the storm inside me.

It didn't work.

Carl grabbed Ian's hand, waiting patiently as I hesitated. I clenched my jaw, forcing my body to move, to function. When we reached the house, I turned to Carl, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Take her," I said, my arms tightening around Ruby for just a second longer before I forced myself to let go.

Carl blinked in surprise but didn't hesitate, carefully gathering her into his arms. He held her close, adjusting her weight like it was second nature.

I glanced at Ian, his big brown eyes wide as he watched me. My heart squeezed painfully, but I couldn't stay. Not right now.

I turned on my heel and locked myself in the bedroom.

This was where I could fall apart.

This was where I could let it happen.

I barely made it to the bed before my knees buckled, sending me crumpling onto the mattress. My whole body curled in on itself, arms wrapping around my middle as if that could hold me together.

"It wasn't as bad as it could have been—"

The words clanged through me, sharp and metallic, slicing through my ribs, embedding into my lungs.

I gasped, but no air came.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been.

The words twisted, wrapped around my throat like vines, tightening, choking, suffocating.

But she was right, wasn't she?

I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks, soaking into the fabric of my shirt.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been.

But tell that to the useless organ in my chest.

Tell that to the hands that still trembled, to the skin that still felt filthy, to the stomach that still churned every time I remembered the feeling of him—his breath, his hands, his voice.

Tell that to the girl who flinched when her own husband reached for her.

Tell that to the mother who couldn't even look at her son without feeling like she had failed him.

A broken sob ripped from my throat, violent and raw.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, desperate to muffle the sound. If they heard me, if Carl or Ian or—God forbid—Daryl heard me, they'd knock, they'd ask.

And I couldn't.

I couldn't talk. I couldn't explain. I couldn't breathe.

I dug my fingers into the blankets beneath me, gripping them like they could somehow anchor me, like they could stop me from slipping further and further away.

Because that's what it felt like.

Like I was drowning.

Like I was unraveling.

And no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I told myself to just move forward, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was slipping away.

That maybe—just maybe—I'd never really come back.