“I know.” She sat beside me, curling one leg beneath her. “But I wanted to.”
I picked at the corner of the toast. “I hate this. I hate being the sister who’s always falling apart. Who always needs rescuing. You probably dread seeing my name pop up on your phone.”
Charlotte brushed my hair out of my face.
“You’re not a burden, Maggie. You’re my baby sister. That comes with lifetime privileges, such as falling apart in my guest room whenever you need to.”
Tears welled up again, traitorous and fast. “I’m such a basket case.”
“You’re not.” Her tone turned firm, almost annoyed on my behalf. “You’re a person going through a hard thing. There’s a difference.”
I sniffled and looked down at my lap. “I really thought Roman was different.”
Her fingers curled around mine, steady and warm. “Tell me.”
I exhaled slowly. “He just… got me. I didn’t have to pretend around him. I didn’t have to overthink every sentence or manage his reactions like I was some emotional project he had to survive. And I felt like I got him too. That I was what he needed. I thought we were”—my voice cracked—“on the same page.”
Charlotte didn’t jump in. She let the silence stretch, her thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.
“It was a fake relationship,” I said. “And I still somehow managed to catch real feelings.”
“Because it wasn’t fake to you.”
I nodded, biting my lip hard.
She sighed. “Look, I know this probably sounds like garbage advice right now, but the right person? The right one won’t need to be convinced. You won’t have to bend yourself into painful shapes to make it work. The right one will meet you where you are.”
“What if I already met him and he just… didn’t feel the same way?”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Then he’s not the right one.”
I scoffed. “That’s convenient logic.”
“It’s true. The right one sticks. You can’t push him away. You can cry, scream, self-sabotage—and yeah, it’ll be messy—but he won’t be scared off. He’ll show up anyway. And not because he has to, but because he wants to.”
I bit down hard on my lip. I hated how right she sounded. Hated how much I wanted her to be wrong. Because if she was wrong, then maybe Roman had just made a mistake. Something we could fix.
But if she was right, then maybe I’d never really had him at all.
“I need to get out of this bed,” I said.
Charlotte looked pleased. “Yes. Move your body. It doesn’t have to be a run. Just go outside, breathe fresh air, stand in the sun. Do something to remind your brain that you’re still alive.”
I gave a watery laugh. “You sound like a therapist.”
“I watched a lot of mental health reels on Instagram last night.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
Charlotte stood and picked up the empty coffee cup. “Rotting is allowed. I support rot. But only temporarily. Your spirit’s still in there, Mags. You just have to make space for it to come back.”
I nodded. “I’ll get up.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
As she stepped out of the room, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, every muscle protesting like I’d just run a marathon in my sleep. I looked around at the half-unpacked overnight bag, the mountain of tissues on the nightstand, the smear of mascara on the pillowcase.
God, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.
