HOURS EARLIER. THAT SAME DAY— AVA'S POV.
I lay flat on my bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the morning light pressing faintly through the curtains. My stomach twisted, cramps gnawing at the lower part of my belly. Usually they came and left within minutes, but this morning they clung to me, almost an hour now, refusing to let go.
My phone rested beside me. I reached for it, hoping distraction would dull the pain. The screen lit up at my touch, a notification beeped, and the battery icon glared red— 8%. My eyes shifted toward the small reading desk in the corner, where my charger should have been. The surface was bare.
I pushed myself upright slowly, wincing. "I thought I left it here last night," I whispered, my fingers brushing over the surface of the desk. I bent down, dragged my backpack from under the table, placed it on the bed, and searched inside. Nothing. My brows furrowed. Confusion prickled.
"Where could it be? I don't take it out," I muttered, eyes scanning the bed, the sheets, the corners. Still nothing.
My gaze drifted across the room. Sarah sat on her bed, combing through her hair. Our eyes met. Her expression was the same as always— disgust, sharp and unhidden. I looked back at the desk. It should be there.
Seconds passed before I spoke. "Sarah, did you take my charger?" My voice was steady, though my chest tightened.
"Yes, I did. I gave it out to Cynthia," she replied flatly, fingers moving through her hair, eyes locked on mine. She rolled them dismissively.
For a moment I thought I'd misheard. My mind raced. Why would she touch my stuff? I've never touched hers. And she sits there, acting like I'm the one at fault.
"Why would you do that without asking me first?" My voice sharpened.
"I did what I did. When she's done with it, she'll give it back." She spoke with a shrug, grabbing a hand mirror to check her reflection.
"Excuse me? I need my charger. My phone is almost dead. Call her to bring it now." Rage surged from my spine to my head, hot and sudden.
"And why would I do that, huh? I already told you— she'll return your shit when she's done with it." She dropped the mirror and rose to her feet.
My fists clenched, knuckles whitening. Every nerve screamed to launch at her, to wipe that arrogance off her lips. But I held back, breath heavy, chest tight.
She noticed. "I see you holding a fist. Do you wanna fight? I've been waiting long for a chance to mess you up." She squared up, fists raised, her stance firm.
I exhaled, long, heavy. My hand snatched my phone from the bed. I looked at her again.
"Do something, bitch. I dare you. I'd be more than happy to beat that baby out of you." Her words spat louder, venom dripping, her stance unbroken.
The sentence cut through me like glass. My stomach cramped harder, nerves burning. My body trembled, but I knew— one wrong move, one reckless choice, and the cost may be unbearable.
I turned, walked slowly to the door. My hand gripped the knob.
"Yeah, bitch, run. Tell your boyfriend to get you a new charger if you're too broke to buy one yourself. 'Cause we ain't returning this one." Her voice followed me, sharp, mocking.
I didn't respond. My throat burned with words I refused to release. I stepped out, the corridor swallowing me, each step heavy, each breath a battle against the rage clawing inside me.