CHAPTER 18 – The Slip of Paper
Thursday morning cracked open with a pale, watery sunrise—the kind that looked tired before the day even began. Fleta dragged herself out of bed, the weight of yesterday still hanging around her shoulders like a wet coat.
Her mother’s hug.
Her mother’s apology.
The soft tremble in her voice.
It all clung to Fleta’s thoughts as she walked to school, her pack now hidden safely at home. She didn’t dare bring anything important today—not when her emotions were scattered, not when she needed clarity.
The bus would leave Oswego in two days.
Two dawns.
Two decisions.
And she still hadn’t chosen.
She reached school early, slipping into the building while most students were still getting off the buses. The hallways were quiet, lockers closed, floors freshly mopped. She liked the school like this—empty and gentle, not yet filled with noise and heat and movement.
Her classroom door was open.
Ms. Forquer sat at her desk, sorting papers with her usual careful precision, the sleeves of her light gray sweater pushed neatly to her elbows. She glanced up when Fleta entered.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
“Hi.”
“You’re early today.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Ms. Forquer gave a sympathetic nod and went back to her sorting, but Fleta could feel her watching—not nosy, not suspicious… just watching the way people sometimes do when they sense something drifting out of reach.
Fleta walked past her desk, heading for her seat.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
That’s when she saw it.
A small folded slip of paper lying on top of her notebook.
Her breath caught.
She picked it up, unfolding it carefully.
In neat handwriting—tidy and straight, just like everything Ms. Forquer touched—it read:
If the world ever feels too heavy,
you are allowed to set it down.
—M.F.
No lecture.
No questions.
No pressure.
Just a sentence. A lifeline.
Fleta swallowed hard, blinking quickly.
“Ms. Forquer?” she whispered.
The teacher looked up.
“Thank you,” Fleta said, her voice almost breaking.
Ms. Forquer offered a small, warm smile. “You don’t have to tell me what you’re carrying. Just don’t carry it alone.”
Fleta nodded, but she couldn’t trust her voice to say more.
She tucked the slip of paper into her binder—right beside her notes about the bus schedule. It felt wrong to place something so kind next to something so urgent, but she didn’t know where else to put it.
The rest of the day crawled by.
She avoided Connor, afraid he’d read the turmoil on her face too easily. She avoided her teachers, afraid they’d ask again if she was okay. At lunch she sat under the awning outside, picking at her food while rain threatened in the distance, the sky heavy and bruised.
By the last bell, she still hadn’t decided.
When she reached home, her mother wasn’t there. A note on the table—shaky handwriting—said:
Working double shift. Back late.
Dinner money on counter.
Love you.
A tiny five?dollar bill sat under a coffee mug.
Fleta’s eyes burned. Why now? Why kindness now? Why effort now, when she was already halfway gone?
She went to her room before anything inside her could crack open.
She pulled out her journal—the one where she wrote her poems every three chapters. She opened to the next blank page.
She didn’t write a poem this time. Not yet.
She wrote one sentence:
I don’t know how to leave without hurting someone.
Then she shut the journal and set it on the bed.
Her eyes drifted to the backpack nestled in the corner—full, ready, waiting. The map above the bed looked down at her, the long white line stretching north and south like a heartbeat.
Two days.
She picked up the map and traced the first miles of the trail again—the Georgia ridgeline, the curves of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the winding path through Tennessee.
She whispered:
“I want this more than anything.”
But her next breath trembled.
“I just don’t want to hurt the people who never meant to hurt me.”
Outside, the sky finally broke. Rain hammered the roof, wind rattled the windows.
Inside, Fleta sat at her desk with her head in her hands, listening to the storm and wondering which choice would destroy her less:
Staying.
Or leaving.
