Chapter Sixty One - I Don't Feel Safe Here

The Baldwin house was colder than Harper remembered.

Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The walls were quiet—too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards under her socks sounded amplified, like footsteps in an empty cathedral. She moved slowly down the hallway, trailing her fingers along the wallpaper. Her hand paused over a faded patch just outside the dining room—a place where Cece once scolded her for having chipped nail polish. That memory bubbled up like acid in her throat.

She pulled her hand away.

The house felt haunted. Not by Cece's death, but by everything she'd left behind.

Harper walked into the living room, her eyes darting to every corner as if expecting someone to lunge from the shadows. The ceiling fan above spun idly, stirring the air just enough to rattle the light fixture. It made a clicking sound with every rotation. Tick. Tick. Tick.

She winced and sank down onto the edge of the sofa, barely letting her body touch the cushion. Her posture was stiff, almost military. Like she was still back there. Still waiting for someone to bark orders at her. Still expecting a hand on her arm. A lock on the door.

Camila entered the room slowly, cautiously, like she was approaching a wounded animal. She was holding a glass of water, hands trembling just enough for the liquid to ripple.

"You should drink something, Harper" she said softly.

Harper didn't respond. Her eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at a patch of carpet where the fibers were flattened. Her legs bounced restlessly, the fabric of her sweatpants whispering with each movement. Her breathing was shallow and tight, her shoulders hunched up to her ears.

"I can't sleep, mom." Harper said finally, her voice brittle.

Camila blinked. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"I haven't slept since I got back. Not properly." Harper's gaze stayed fixed. "I just lie there, waiting. Every sound feels like them. Like they're coming to take me back."

Camila sat down slowly on the adjacent armchair, placing the glass on the table.

"Honey, you're not there anymore—"

"Don't." Harper snapped, turning to look at her mother sharply. Her voice cracked. "Don't tell me I'm safe. I'm not. Not up here." She tapped her temple with a shaking finger. "And not in this house."

Footsteps creaked from behind the hallway, and Thomas appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, expression pinched with concern.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Harper stood up abruptly. Her movements were jerky, fueled by the adrenaline she'd been riding for days. Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, and she pressed the heel of her palm to her eye to stop it twitching.

"I think I need to go back to Warren."

The air in the room shifted.

Camila straightened. "What do you mean, honey?"

"I'm not okay. I'm really, really not okay." Harper said. Her voice wavered dangerously. "It's not just the camp. Or Grandma. It's... everything. My mind doesn't work right anymore. I keep having these highs where I feel like I can do anything—like I could run through fire and come out fine. But then I crash so hard I can't get out of bed. I can't breathe. I'm scared all the time. I feel like there's something wrong inside me that's growing and growing and waiting to explode."

Thomas looked stunned. Camila opened her mouth, but no words came.

"I was diagnosed with bipolar, you remember that?" Harper said, stepping away from the couch. "And that PTSD? Yeah, thanks to the torture camp grandma paid for. I've been trying to manage it. To pretend I was fine because I thought that's what you needed from me. I can't focus, I can't fucking do anything."

Her tone turned bitter. "I thought if I was quiet, if I smiled and got good grades, you'd stop looking at me like I was broken."

"You're not broken." Camila whispered.

Harper let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Aren't I? Because I fucking feel it."

She wrapped her arms around herself, holding on tightly like she might otherwise fall apart right there on the Baldwin living room rug.

"I hear things." she continued. "Doors slamming. Heavy boots on tile. Screaming. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. I still feel the straps on my wrists. I still feel the cold from the cement floor. And Cece's dead, but she still lives in my head, like a ghost that won't shut up."

Camila stood now, inching closer. "You should've told us this sooner."

"I didn't trust you!" Harper snapped, voice breaking again. "You let her send me away. You let her decide what to do with me like I was nothing. You never protected me."

Camila's face folded into grief. "That's not true—"

"Yes, it is!" Harper shouted. "You chose silence. You chose denial. You haven't even asked me what happened there. Everyone else looks at me like I'm a ticking time bomb! Every time I begged you to give me something, anything.. And you pushed me away. Told your colleagues I was dramatic. Every party. Told family I was staying with my aunt. It all builds up and look what happened?!"

A heavy silence fell between them.

Then Harper's voice dropped to a whisper.

"I don't feel safe here. Not even with myself. And I think if I stay... something bad will happen. I don't know what, but I'm scared."

Thomas stepped forward slowly, his voice soft and deliberate. "Then we'll take you. Back to the hospital. If that's what you need, Harper, we'll get you there."

Camila reached out, palm open. Harper stared at it for a moment, then placed her hand into her mother's. Her fingers were ice cold. Camila pulled her daughter into her arms and held her like she had when she was five years old and afraid of thunderstorms.

"I'm scared, mom." Harper whispered again, quieter this time. The words seemed to melt into her mother's shoulder.

"So are we." Camila said, voice shaking. "But we're not leaving you to go through this alone, okay?"

And for the first time since she came back from that place, Harper let herself cry—not quietly, not politely, but full-bodied sobs that wracked her chest. She wept not just for the pain, but for the possibility that maybe—just maybe—she wouldn't have to carry it alone anymore.

Three days later.

The sterile smell of the hospital room clung to Harper's skin, and she couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the sound of her own shallow breath and the distant hum of hospital machines filling the space around her. It had been a few days since she'd been admitted—days that felt like an eternity. The fog in her mind had barely lifted, and though she wasn't physically hurting anymore, the weight of everything she'd been through still crushed her from the inside.

She barely noticed the door creaking open, but she felt the presence before she saw it. It wasn't until she heard the soft shuffle of footsteps and a quiet, unsure voice that she looked up.

"Harper? Are you here?"

Harriet.

Harper's heart twisted in her chest. She wasn't sure whether she wanted her here or not. Her sister's face was as tense as it had been the last time they'd spoken—guarded, wary, as if she didn't know what to do with herself in Harper's presence. But there she was, standing in the doorway with her hands shoved in her pockets, looking like she didn't belong.

"Yeah, it's me." Harper murmured, her voice still hoarse from the days of silence. She motioned weakly to the chair beside her bed. "You can sit, you know."

Harriet hesitated but eventually walked in, settling into the chair with a deep breath. She didn't say anything at first, just stared at Harper, the awkwardness hanging heavy in the air. It felt like old times—like there was a thousand miles between them, no matter how close they were physically.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. The silence between them wasn't as comfortable as it once had been. It wasn't filled with inside jokes or quiet understanding. It was suffocating. Harper couldn't take it anymore.

"I don't want to be here, Harriet." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "But I feel like I'm losing it."

Harriet's eyes flickered with something—maybe concern, maybe guilt—but she kept her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "I know."

"No, you don't." Harper replied, her tone a little sharper than she intended. "You don't know what it's like. What I've been through... what they did to me in that place."

Harriet's brow furrowed. "I didn't mean it like that.."

Harper swallowed hard, the memories rushing back. The cold, sterile walls of the conversion camp. The daily drills. The forced prayers. The nights she lay awake, listening to the sounds of other girls crying themselves to sleep, desperate for someone to care.

"They... they made me hate myself. More than I already did." Harper said quietly, eyes downcast. "I was broken. They told me everything was wrong with me, that I wasn't... normal. They told me I needed to change. They tried to make me forget who I am. That I could finally leave if I was 'normal'."

Harriet's gaze softened, but she didn't say anything.

"I keep thinking about Riley." Harper continued, her voice thick with emotion. "She's still in there, Harriet. She's stuck. And every day, I just... I wish I could get her out. I wish I could do something. But I don't even know how to help her. I can't even help myself."

Harriet's breath caught at the mention of Riley. Harper could see her sister's expression shift—a mixture of concern and confusion. Riley. The girl Harper had once appreciated more than anyone in that situation. The girl who had been with her through the darkest times, the bond they had was not something to be replaced.

"I don't even know if she's okay." Harper continued, her voice breaking. "I don't know what they've done to her. I... I can't lose her."

Harriet was quiet for a long time, her eyes downcast. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft and hesitant. "You're not alone, you know. I... I've been trying to understand what you've been through. What it's like for you."

Harper raised her eyes to meet Harriet's, surprised by the sincerity in her sister's words.

"I never thought it would be like this, Harp.." Harriet admitted, her voice thick with emotion. "I didn't know how to help you. I didn't know what to say or how to fix it... But I can see now that... you're really hurting. And I didn't realise how bad it really was. I'm here.. whenever you need me."

Harper let out a shaky breath, the walls inside her breaking down just a little. It felt like a small crack in the dam that had held back everything for so long. "I don't want to hurt anymore. I just want to feel like myself again, Har. I don't even know who I am anymore. Not after everything they did to me."

"I know-" Harriet whispered, her voice full of regret. "I know that I should've been more there for you. I'm really sorry."

Harper looked at her sister—really looked at her—for the first time in what felt like forever. There was still so much unspoken between them. So much hurt. But something in Harriet's eyes—something that wasn't anger or fear—made Harper feel like maybe, just maybe, they could start to rebuild the bridge that had been burned.

Harriet's gaze softened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She didn't say anything more, just reached over and gently touched Harper's hand. It was a quiet gesture, one that spoke louder than words ever could.

"I'm so sorry, Harper." Harriet whispered. "For everything."

Harper closed her eyes, squeezing her sister's hand in return. "It's okay."

For the first time in so long, the weight on Harper's chest lightened, just a little. Maybe this was the beginning of something. Maybe they could find a way back to each other. Maybe they could fix what had been broken.

"I'm gonna help you, Harp." Harriet said, her voice steady and determined. "We'll figure this out together. You're not alone anymore."

Harper opened her eyes and met her sister's gaze. For the first time in a long while, she believed it.