And I’m tired of lying—to her, to everyone, to myself.
So I left the lake house and her behind in a town that’s been both the happiest place on Earth and absolute hell.
The only promise I can live with now is the hope that she’s going back to a life in London, doing what she loves, chasing her dreams, finding a version of peace I couldn’t give her.
The photo Luiza took of us in Málaga, Nora had given me before I left is in my pocket now, edges soft from my thumb running over them again and again.It’s the only thing that feels real anymore.
In the photo we’re looking at each other, smiling, the world around us blurry and golden.Like the universe forgot, for one second, how to be cruel.
“Nathaniel Sullivan?Dr.Hawthorne will see you now.”
The sound of my name snaps me out of my thoughts.I glance at Nick, who’s been sitting beside me this whole time, quiet but solid, the way he always is.His smile says everything—pride, fear, belief.
The things I can’t find for myself.
We both stand and he pulls me into a hug, and for a second, I’m not twenty-one.I’m just a kid who needs someone to tell him he’s going to make it out alive.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispers.
I can’t speak, so I just nod.Then I turn, every step toward that office feeling like both a death sentence and a lifeline.
Dr.Hawthorne is younger than I expected.He’s got kind eyes, steady hands, the kind of calm that makes you think maybe he actuallyseespeople and not just their damage.
“Nathaniel,” he starts.
“Nate,” I correct.
He smiles.“Right, Nate.I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I’m guessing this isn’t exactly where you pictured spending the few next months.”
That honesty catches me off guard that it disarms something in me.
“So I’m just going to lay out the plan so you know what to expect.Fair?”
I nod.
“Great.We’ll start with a full medical and psychological evaluation,” he explains.“You’ll go through medically supervised detox.Given your substance history—pills, heroin, fentanyl—we’ll keep you safe while your body adjusts.After that, we move into therapy, group work, life skills training.Three months minimum.Longer if you choose sober housing after.”
He keeps talking about visitation, phone calls, progress stages.I nod in the right places, but his words blend into a dull hum.
My brain’s already spiraling—how the fuck did I end up here?
How many times did I swear I could handle it on my own?
But then he says, “It’s not about punishment, Nate.It’s about learning how to live again.”
And something about that line sticks.
Learning how to live again.
A staff member leads me through the halls after the meeting with Dr.Hawthorne.Everything smells sterile and the floors shine too much.
My room’s small—two beds, two desks, one window facing mountains that feel too far away to be real.One bed’s already got stuff on it.
“Your roommate is Harrison St.Clare,” the staffer says.“He’s been here a week.Get yourself nice and settled and someone will be by to check in with you shortly.”
I’m sitting on the empty bed when Harrison walks in.
He’s in his early twenties, expensive looking haircut and dark eyes that’ve seen their own brand of hell.
