Now there’s no mock toast, just self-mockery. What friendship? These people barely know me; we’ve only spent a total of two weeks together. Traveling on the same tight schedule to the same pretty places might have bred the illusion of intimacy and comradery, but that can’t change the age-old curse: The more people know about me, the less they like me.

“I—I didn’t want to do it,” I try to explain, and I’m talking too loud now, but it’s like I’ve lost control over my mouth, lost the ability to breathe. “I really didn’t—I mean, it’s me but I—”

A woman from higher up in the crowds shushes me, silencing my desperate attempts to win over the jury after the verdict has already been reached.

It’s like the Incident all over again.

But it feels like I’m the one falling from the stairs, the ground giving way underneath me, the breathless, terrifying tumble and the violent, rib-cracking jolt of the landing. So much for fresh slates, new beginnings, shots in the dark at happiness. I can feel all the layers that had sloughed off hardening around my heart again.

I stumble onto my feet. Squeeze past the people in the stands, mumbling apologies under my breath. I have no idea where I’m going. My feet are moving on their own, faster and faster, taking me up the stairs, to the exit, back out onto the road, my heels clapping against the stone pavement. I can’t think about anything except the fact that I need to leave. Now.

There’s a sharp, sour feeling stuffed in the back of my throat and nose, like when you choke on a mouthful of water, and the more I try to blink away the tears, the harder they press against my eyes, until finally, the invisible rope that’s been tying me together snaps, and everything goes blurry. The pale light of the moon wobbles in my vision, the stars streaking silver across the sky, and I’m still walking, hugging my arms around myself, crying so hard that I can’t even breathe.

My whole body heaves as the tears trickle down my chin, the taste of salt seeping into my mouth.

I’m alone, I realize. I’m so hopelessly, utterly alone—the road ahead is empty, and around me there’s nothing but rice paddies rippling in the breeze like the waves of the sea, the dark streams running between them, and the layered, indigo shadows of the mountains. I can never see the people from this trip again. I’ll have to buy an early plane ticket to LA and run back to my parents and—

And then what?

There’s nothing for me.