"Hey, cuz." Rina's smile is too bright. Too forced. "We brought lunch."
I nod but don't move from the couch.
Sofia sets bags on the kitchen counter while Gianna sits in the chair across from me. She looks like she wants to say something but doesn't know how.
"How are you feeling today?" Rina asks, settling onto the other end of the couch. Not too close. They've all learned to keep their distance.
"Fine."
"Elena—"
"I said I'm fine." My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
Rina exchanges a look with Sofia. I hate that look. The one that saysshe's not okay but we don't know what to do about it.
"Marco said you're not sleeping," Sofia ventures carefully.
"Marco talks too much."
"He's worried about you. We all are."
I don't respond. What am I supposed to say? That they should be worried? That I'm drowning and I don't know how to stop? That every time I close my eyes I see Ronan's face or feel phantom hands on my skin or wake up not remembering where I am?
"We want to help," Gianna says quietly. "Just tell us what you need."
"I need everyone to stop looking at me like I'm broken."
"We don't?—"
"Yes, you do." I stand abruptly. The plants need water. I focus on that. Something concrete. Something I can control. "You all look at me like I'm fragile. Like I might shatter if someone says the wrong thing."
"That's not true," Rina protests.
But it is true. I can see it in all their faces. The careful way they speak to me. The way they avoid certain topics. The way they tiptoe around me like I'm a bomb that might explode.
I grab the watering can and start tending to the plants. The familiar routine soothes something in me. This I know how to do. This makes sense.
"Have you thought about talking to someone?" Sofia asks. "A therapist or?—"
"No."
"Elena, what happened to you?—"
"I don't want to talk about it." I pour water into the fiddle leaf fig's pot. Too much. I'm overwatering it. But I can't seem to stop. "Not to a therapist. Not to you. Not to anyone."
"Keeping it inside isn't healthy?—"
"And talking about it is?" I whirl on her. Water sloshes over the edge of the can onto the hardwood floor. "Reliving it over and over? Telling some stranger about how I was drugged and raped and I can't even remember most of it? How is that supposed to help?"
The room goes silent.
I set down the watering can with shaking hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to?—"
"Don't apologize," Rina says firmly. "You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to feel however you feel."
But that's the problem. I don't know how I feel. Angry, yes. But also scared and ashamed and guilty and so many other things I can't name.
Guilty.
