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Blake lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of the sun peeking through her curtains dancing shadows across the room. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she replayed the evening with Ethan. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by bursts of genuine laughter and a comfortable silence. It was hard to reconcile the man who'd charmed her over coffee with the boy she remembered from her past.
Ethan back then existed in a different galaxy. He was fourteen. And Blake was twelve. One humid afternoon, a misplaced kickball and a flurry of accusations escalated into a full-blown argument. Ethan, fueled by a volatile mix of teenage angst and a desperate need to appear tough, shoved Blake with more force than intended. The world tilted on its axis as she stumbled backward, the playground gravel spitting her onto the unforgiving asphalt.
A sickening crack echoed as her arm hit the steps of the playground they were at. Pain, sharp and white-hot, exploded through her limb, stealing her breath. She lay there, stunned, the world fading in and out of focus. Ethan's initial look of shock morphed into a mask of indifference so quickly it sent a fresh wave of betrayal through her. The foster parents, alerted by the commotion, arrived in a flurry of worried shouts. The frantic car ride to the hospital was a blur of tears and a throbbing ache that pulsed with every bump in the road.
The white walls of the emergency room felt like a stark contrast to the carefree afternoon that had taken such a drastic turn. Hours ticked by in agonizing slowness as X-rays were taken and a cast was carefully molded around her broken arm. Through it all, Ethan remained a silent, sullen figure. He offered no apology, no explanation, just a chilling silence that spoke louder than words. He had avoided blame for the incident, not owning up to his actions at all.
