Zoey cried into the night.
The forest was utterly silent. The only sound echoing through the trees was the sobs of a purple-haired young girl, a girl whose beauty could start wars.
But right now, there was nothing beautiful about her.
Her face was a mess of tears and thick snot.
Her legs had given out the moment Atticus left, and she had collapsed onto the soft ground.
Her fragile frame trembled, her hands covering her face as she tried, desperately, to wipe away the endless stream of tears.
But no matter how much she wiped, more fell, like a rushing waterfall.
Her clothes were soaked in tears.
Her body shook uncontrollably.
And for another time in her life, Zoey cried without restraint.
She felt everything.
Shame.
So much shame she could barely breathe.
How could she ever face him again?
Atticus had been nothing but good to her.
He had been gentle. Caring. Affectionate.
