Chapter 2: A Shadow’s Love and Betrayal

I knew Mrs. Miller adopted me just to take care of Nathan.

Even so, I was grateful—she’d rescued me from that hellhole. A gilded cage beat the one I’d left behind.

I genuinely wanted to be good to Nathan.

He was a year younger than me—fifteen when I was sixteen, all long limbs and awkwardness.

To put me in the same class, Mrs. Miller arranged for me to repeat a grade, telling the school I had "educational gaps." Not a total lie.

Nathan barely spoke.

Classmates jabbed him with compass points and poured water on his face, but he’d sit there silent as stone. Water dripped down his chin, soaking his collar, but he never flinched.

When it hurt, he’d just furrow his brow and twist his sleeves so tight his knuckles turned white.

Kids circled him, chanting, "Mute! Mute!" Their voices echoed like a bad rhyme from a broken playground.

I couldn’t understand why someone so beautiful, who’d done nothing wrong, deserved all that torment. Maybe people just want to break anything too pure.

So I picked up a chair and smashed it on the ringleader’s head. "Try mocking him again!"

I’d fought every day at the group home, so I knew how to throw a punch. Survival meant hitting first, hitting hard, and not stopping until it was over. As I swung, I remembered how fighting used to be the only way to survive—but I never wanted to be that person here. Still, I couldn’t let Nathan be hurt.

That day, I taught those bullies a lesson. One kid’s nose bled all over his Abercrombie shirt. Another ran to the nurse, wailing. The ringleader needed stitches.

Nathan still didn’t speak, but he looked at me for a full two seconds—something unreadable in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or hope.

He hated strangers getting close, but I stuck to him anyway, like a stray dog finally finding a home.

Eventually, he got used to me. Like a shadow—always there, never quite touching.

He’d answer my questions in sign language, hands moving with smooth precision.

When buying snacks, he’d always buy two, handing me an extra Gatorade after gym or an extra pack of Oreos.

The turning point came our senior year.

That day was Nathan’s eighteenth birthday, but Mrs. Miller was away on business. No celebration, just me and him.

I spent every penny I’d saved tutoring to treat him to dinner—twenty-three dollars and sixty-seven cents.

I didn’t expect the waiter to mix up our drinks, bringing us some homemade cocktail the couple at the next table had brought. Way stronger than it looked.

Walking home, I felt off. My skin burned, my blood hot, like my body didn’t fit me anymore.

I sent Nathan to his room and hurried to mine for a cold shower.

Just as I was leaving, Nathan grabbed my hand—his palm burning hot against my wrist.

Suddenly, he pressed me against the doorframe, his breath hot on my face, smelling of mint and something darker.

He signed that he felt hot and uncomfortable, his movements clumsy and desperate.

Before I could react, he lowered his head and kissed me.

Electricity shot through me. My eyes flew wide, nerves sparking alive.

Blood rushed to my head, and in that burning, suffocating kiss, I nearly lost control. I trembled, arms wrapping around his waist. Our hearts pounded together—maybe his, maybe mine.

That night is a blur. I only remember him kissing me until my lip split, the taste of copper and something sweeter.

The next morning, I woke up in his bed. Clothes everywhere—my torn shirt, his jeans inside out. Evidence of desperation.

Remembering last night, I blushed. My body ached, but my heart felt light—like I’d swallowed sunshine.

Just when I thought my secret feelings were finally returned, his words shattered everything.

Nathan stood by the bed, dressed, looking down coldly. His hair was damp from a shower, Patriots t-shirt fresh.

He signed:

"Emma, how can you be so shameless?"

"To make me touch you, you drugged me with something that strong."

"You really are someone who’ll do anything—no shame. Just like those group home kids—desperate and conniving."