Chapter 5: Ghosts Between Us

"What’s wrong, Lauren?"

Her voice cut through the tension, and both Mason and Sebastian turned to look at me.

I ducked down to grab my bag and muttered, "Sorry," before making a beeline for the bathroom.

I could feel my face blazing as I kept my head down, weaving through chairs, nearly tripping over someone’s backpack. I just needed to breathe—needed to get out of the spotlight.

I locked myself in a stall, popped my meds, and swallowed.

The familiar bitterness grounded me. I shut my eyes, counted my breaths, and waited for the world to stop spinning.

After a while, I finally calmed down.

I’ve got severe bipolar disorder and anxiety. It started after my parents’ divorce back in high school, when I got left behind.

That year, my dad got caught cheating—right in public. My mom lost it, screaming, neighbors all peeking through their curtains. They split that day.

It was the kind of small-town drama people whispered about for years. I still remember the shouting, the slammed doors, the way everyone watched like it was their own personal soap opera.

When I got home, the first thing I saw was the divorce certificate.

It was just sitting on the kitchen table, next to an empty mug and a half-eaten slice of pie. My mom’s handwriting was shaky, but her decision was final.

She bought a ticket and left that same day.

She took nothing—not even me. I was left standing there, suitcase in hand, watching her disappear down the driveway. She never looked back.

The family I’d once bragged about was gone in a single afternoon.

It felt like the floor dropped out from under me. The house echoed with silence, and I realized: I was on my own.

I became the go-to gossip at dinner tables. Friends who used to envy my grades started whispering behind my back.

Everywhere—school, the grocery store, even church—people stared. I could feel their eyes, their pity dressed up as concern.

Ever since then, whenever I hear whispers, I can’t help but shake.

The anxiety never really left. It lives in my bones, flaring up whenever I feel exposed.

"So dramatic, just having a drink and this happens."

"Yeah, but honestly, those two guys are total snacks, especially the one in the white jacket."

"Come on, the guy in the black coat is hotter."

Footsteps echoed. Through the stall gap, I saw two girls with wavy hair, tank tops, and heavy makeup, heading to the mirror.

They chatted like they owned the place, voices bouncing off the tile. I shrank back, trying to disappear.

"They’re both cute. But that girl? Ugh. She’s so fake."

The girl in the white tank smeared on cherry red lipstick, her words muffled but crystal clear.

She pouted in the mirror, then said, "Yeah, innocent-looking girls are always the wildest. Don’t ask how I know."

When they finished, they swapped glances and cracked up, hands over their mouths.

Their laughter echoed, sharp and mean. I pressed my forehead against the cool metal of the stall door, fighting tears.

My grip on my bag tightened, body going cold.

I tried to steady my breathing, counting backward from ten, but my fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.