Thomas watched that happen. He didn’t say anything. I think that hurt more. Because there was nothing left to argue with in silence. Just what was.
Just me sitting there, bent around a boy who barely knew I existed and needed me anyway. Just the shape of what I had become.
I reached out and brushed my knuckles lightly against Elliot’s hair. The touch was barely there—more intention than pressure—like I was afraid of imprinting myself on him too deeply.
His brow smoothed. That was all it took. One imperceptible touch.
My throat closed. I looked down at him and tried to imagine a version of myself that didn’t do this. That didn’t orient around his breathing. That didn’t measure the world in whether he was okay. That didn’t feel like everything in me tilted toward him by default. I couldn’t find one.
Thomas shifted beside me and garnered my attention. His eyes flicked to mine. “I’m scared for you,” he said again, quieter this time.
I nodded. Not because I agreed. Because I didn’t have the energy to pretend I wasn’t.
I stayed there until the sky outside the window began to pale—until the dark thinned into gray, until the world remembered how to continue without our permission.
Elliot breathed. The monitor hummed. Thomas sat, part of my silent vigil. My heart ached as the seconds ticked by on an endless loop. Empty. Still. Waiting for something I didn’t know how to put down.
My hands had gonenumb where they gripped the sheets. Pins and needles crawled up my fingers, into my wrists. I flexed them once, then stilled again, afraid that if I let go I’d float off into something hollow and endless. My pulse was loud in my ears. My stomach felt wrong—too empty, too tight, like I’d been bracing for a punch that hadn’t landed yet.
Thomas stood. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I was afraid if I did, I’d see whatever conclusion he’d already reached about me.
He lingered a second longer than necessary. “You know what the worst part is?” he said quietly.
I swallowed.
“You’re not wrong about him.” He paused. “You are wrong about you.”
That finally made me turn to look at him. He met my eyes. There was no anger left there. Just something tired. Sad. Almost afraid.
“You think you’re the only thing keeping him alive,” he said. “But what you’re really doing is teaching him that he can’t survive without you.”
My throat tightened.
“That’s not saving him,” he continued. “That’s building a cage out of your own fear.”
I flinched like he’d struck me. He nodded once, like he hated himself for saying it. Then he left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him with a sound that felt too final for how small it was. I stared at it long after he was gone.
My chest felt… wrong. Heavy. Pressurized. Like I was breathing through something thick and resistant instead of air. I shifted in the chair, trying to shake the sensation loose, but it stayed—a dense, pulsing ache right behind my sternum.
I pressed my palm there, uselessly.
You’re not wrong about him. You’re wrong about you.The words echoed. I dragged in a breath, willing the words to fade.
A sound. Soft and broken reached my ears. It was the most exquisite type of pain.
“An… thony?”
I froze. Every nerve in my body lit up at once. I leaned forward so fast the chair scraped loudly beneath me. “Hey,” I whispered. “Hey. I’m here.”
His eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused at first. Dazed. Then they found me. Relief crossed his face so fast and so completely it made my chest hurt worse than before.
“You’re here,” he breathed. “You didn’t go.”
“I’m here.”
He swallowed. His throat worked like it hurt. “I thought…” His voice cracked. “I thought I lost you.”
Something in me twisted. “Me too,” I said before I could stop myself.
