I nodded.
We hugged.
It was not a hug that erased the past. It acknowledged it. It was honored that something broken had finally been addressed.
When we stepped apart, his shoulders seemed lighter.
“I will not waste this,” he said.
“I believe you.”
As we walked away from the school, I realized something unexpected.
For years, I had believed power meant control. It meant holding the stamp. It meant deciding who rose and who fell.
But real power was choosing not to become the thing that hurt you.
The memory of that classroom no longer burned.
It felt complete.
For the first time since I was 16, I no longer carried the name “Patch” inside me.
I carried my own.
