What kind of coward does that?
What kind of broken, damaged person can't even tell the man she loves that she loves him?
Me.
That's who.
Because even after everything—after his patience and his kindness and his unwavering presence—I'm still the girl who's too scared to reach for something good.
Still the girl who expects to be hurt.
Still the girl who can't believe she deserves to be loved.
Tears burn my eyes.
I blink them back.
Crying won't help anything.
Won't bring him home safe.
Won't undo the words I didn't say.
I'm staring at my phone when I hear footsteps in the hallway.
Fast.
Urgent.
My heart stops the second the door opens.
Mom stands there, her face pale, her eyes too bright.
She's still in the clothes she was wearing earlier—nice slacks, silk blouse.
But her hair is disheveled now, like she ran her hands through it too many times.
And her expression.
God, her expression.
"Mom?" My voice sounds wrong. Thin. Scared. "What?—"
"Baby." She crosses to me, takes my hands in hers. They're cold. Trembling slightly. "There's been an incident."
The world tilts.
Everything goes fuzzy at the edges.
"Gunnar?"
"He's hurt. They're bringing him back now."
Hurt.
Not dead.
Hurt.
