Those words—so small, sofragile—cut louder than a scream.
They destroy me.
She’s asking for help. After everything.
One tear slips from the corner of her eye, trailing into her hairline. Then her eyes flutter shut.
She goes completely still.
I sit there frozen, my breath stuck in my throat. My chest rising and falling with shallow panic.
Minutes pass.
She’s not dead—because I can feel her pulse. She’s just...goneagain. Slipped into a sleep so deep it scares me.
My arms ache. My shoulder protests. But I don’t care.
I lift her, gently, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. Like the queen she still is to me.
I carry her to her room.
Lay her down on the bed. And then—I hover.
I should leave. Let her rest. Give her space.
But the thought of her waking up alone—choking on another memory—without me?
No. Ican’t.
So I settle beside her, careful, cautious. Create a space between us, enough for her to breathe.
But then I shift. Let her body curl into my chest, her face turned slightly against my shirt—her breath finally slowing.
If she wakes up and tries to gut me with her knife, I’lllether.
But until then?
She’ll sleep with me here.
And I’ll stand guard over her peace—what little of it remains. Whatever little of what she’s trying to build back.
THIRTY
Advik
I’m not sure if I’m terrified or relieved that Greesha has broken down so brutally. I think I’m a bit of both.
The raw painful outpouring of her finally giving up the mask—or maybegiving into her actual self—was something I’d never thought I’d be grateful for.
There were moments these past few months—after we met again—that I hoped she’d let it all go. But I didn’t know she’d take me with her when she shattered.
She’s still curled up against me. My good shoulder is her pillow for now. She hasn’t stirred at all in the past three hours. It’s almost evening now.
Neither of us have eaten anything since breakfast this morning. And I think she’d need some sustenance when she wakes up.
I want to untangle and cook her something, but I’m almost terrified to leave.Fuck.
My eyes are dazedly locked at the ceiling fan, moving slowly at a low speed.
