The line goes dead, and I'm left standing in my room, the phone pressed against my chest, my heart beating for what feels like the first time in two weeks.
She's still here.
She's fighting.
And for the first time since I dropped her off, I allow myself to believe that she might actually make it.
That the woman I fell in love with—the one with the golden hair and the bright eyes and the laugh that could fill a room—might find her way back to me after all.
I sink down onto the edge of my bed, still clutching the phone, and let the relief wash over me.
It doesn't erase the fear.
Doesn't undo the two weeks of hell I've just survived.
But it's something to hold onto.
A lifeline in the darkness.
She's still fighting.
And as long as she's fighting, so am I.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vanna
Something is wrong with me.
Not the usual kind of wrong—not the cravings or the shakes or the bone-deep exhaustion that's been my constant companion for the past month.
This is different.
This is my body doing something I don't understand, and it's scaring the hell out of me.
I'm standing in the bathroom of my room in the residential wing, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger.
Healthier than she was a month ago, sure—my cheeks have filled out a little, and the dark circles under my eyes aren't quite as pronounced.
But there's something else.
Something I can't quite put my finger on.
My breasts are sore.
They've been sore for over a week now, tender in a way that makes even the soft fabric of my bra feel like sandpaper.
And I'mtired—not the tired of withdrawal, but a different kind of tired.
A heavy, bone-deep fatigue that hits me in waves, usually right after lunch.
And the nausea.
God, the nausea.
At first, I thought it was just a lingering effect of the detox.
