I don't know how long I sat there.
The concrete beneath me was ice-cold. Headlights from passing cars swept over me in steady waves, lighting me up—then abandoning me to the dark again.
I dialed my parents. It rang once. "Evelyn?"
The sound of my mother's voice was enough to break something open. Everything I'd been holding back rushed out at once, tearing through my throat. "I caught them," I said. "And then they teamed up to throw me out. They locked the door. It's my home."
A sharp breath.
Then my father's voice—low, even, unmistakably calm. "Where are you right now?" "Outside. By the road." "Stay there," he said. "We're coming. Now."
The call ended.
I remained where I was, the wind cutting through my coat. The chaos in my head began to thin, steadied by the certainty in my parents' voices.
The blood at my temple had started to dry. I looked down at my palms—red, scraped—then back at the brightly lit building behind me.
Something shifted.
The grief didn't vanish. It simply stepped aside. What took its place was cold. Focused. Burning.
Anger.
That was my apartment. My name was on the lease. My life was built inside those walls. They hadn't just betrayed me. They'd tried to erase me.
I didn't look up again. I didn't wait for the door to open. Whatever was happening behind it was no longer my concern.
I stood, brushing grit from my coat.
The first thing I needed to do— was remove them.