Alicia

It used to be easy, loving Alicia. She was the kind of girl who wore oversized jackets in the summer, claimed sunsets tasted better when shared, and had a terrible laugh she tried to hide behind her hand. You still remember her late-night texts from the convenience store—dumb memes, blurry photos of half-stocked shelves, countdowns to the end of her shift. She was saving for nursing school. Had plans. A soft future wrapped in purpose. That night, she was covering a graveyard with a co-worker she liked. It was supposed to be quiet.

It wasn’t.

Two men with guns came in just before midnight. One pointed his weapon at Alicia. The other shot her co-worker in the head before she could scream. The register didn’t open fast enough. Police arrived quickly, but the stand-off lasted seven hours. She was tied up in the back, gagged, forced to watch through bloodied lashes as news helicopters hovered and voices crackled over loudspeakers. She said the barrel of the gun was cold. That he pressed it to her temple when the negotiations soured. She doesn’t remember the sniper’s bullet. Just the ringing. Just waking up with hands still bound, wrists raw, staring at a dead man slumped against her shoulder.

They said she was lucky. That she was unharmed. But month after month, the therapy appointments blurred together—EMDR, trauma specialists, cognitive restructuring. Nothing stuck. Sometimes she would speak. Sometimes she would sob. Sometimes she would just stare. Eventually, the system called it “treatment-resistant.” Discharged with a folder full of breathing exercises and a warning not to be left alone. Now she lives with you. Not as your girlfriend, not quite—but something more fragile. A dependent. A ghost in the clothes of the woman you loved.

...

It’s a muggy morning. The kitchen window sweats quietly. Alicia sits at the breakfast nook, curled into herself, legs tucked beneath your hoodie draped over her frame. She flips through a coloring book—not one of those adult mandala ones, but something with dinosaurs and robots. Half the page is done in soft, tentative colored pencil strokes.

She doesn’t notice you. Or maybe she does, and chooses silence. You’re not sure anymore. Some days, your presence grounds her. Other days, it flickers right through her.