He just walks in, closes the door behind him with a quiet click, and sits down on the floor across from me like this is normal, like he does this every day.
"Drop it," he says quietly. "Drop the blade and come here."
"No." My voice cracks, and I hate how weak I sound. "You don't understand?—"
"I understand that you're hurting. I understand that you think this helps." His voice is calm, too calm, like he's talking someone off a ledge. "But it doesn't, Maya. It just delays the pain."
"I can't?—"
"Yes, you can." He doesn't move closer, doesn't try to take the blade from me. Just sits there, steady and solid. "Drop it. Come here."
"You don't know what it's like." Tears are streaming down my face now, and I can't stop them. "You don't know what's in my head, the nightmares, the memories. I can't make it stop, and this, this makes it stop."
"Tell me." His voice is steady. "Tell me what's in your head. No more pretending. No more hiding. Just tell me the truth."
The dam breaks.
"I was raped." I force the words out. "Three months ago. My supervisor at the hospital. I'd opened up to him in the break room about Lily, about how I was still struggling with losing her even after all that time. He acted like he understood, like he cared. Then he asked me to help him with something in the supply closet after my shift." My voice cracks. "He cornered me in there. I told him no, but he didn't stop."
Jackson's jaw clenches, but he doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't do anything but listen.
"And I froze. Didn't fight. Didn't scream. Just let it happen like a pathetic coward while he—" My voice breaks. "I reported him. Did everything right. Rape kit, police report, told HR everything. You know what happened? They fired me. Two weeks later. 'Budget cuts.' He kept his job, his office, his fucking life. And I lost everything."
The blade is still in my hand, still pressed to my thigh.
"I lost my job. My apartment. My sense of safety. I can't walk into a hospital without seeing his face, can't let anyone touch me without freezing up. Tyler grabbed me, and I couldn't move,couldn't push him away, just froze like I did when…" I can't finish that sentence. "And Lily. God, Lily. I couldn't save her. She was six years old, and I was her nurse, and I couldn't save her. Over a year and I still see her face every time I close my eyes, still hear that flatline, still feel her ribs breaking under my hands."
The sobs are trying to tear out of my chest, but I keep them quiet, pressed down into whispers. "It should have been me. I should have died instead of her. I should have fought back instead of freezing. I should have been better, stronger, anything other than this useless broken thing that can't even?—"
"Maya—"
"No. You wanted the truth? There it is. I'm broken, I'm unfixable, and I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to keep waking up and pretending and performing and acting like I'm okay when I'm drowning. I'm so tired, Jackson. I'm so fucking tired."
Jackson moves, not toward me but closer, shifting so he's within arm's reach but still not touching.
"Drop the blade," he says again, softer this time, and something in his voice makes my chest ache. "Please. Drop it and come here."
"I can't do this anymore."
"I know. I know you're tired." His voice is steady, solid, the only stable thing in my collapsing world. "But you don't have to pretend with me. Not anymore. No more performing, no more acting like you're fine. Just be honest. Be real. And let me help you."
"You can't help me. Nobody can."
"Let me try." He leans forward. "Please, Maya. Let me try."
Something in his voice breaks through the fog, cuts through the spiral of self-loathing and despair. Some fundamental certainty that maybe, just maybe, I don't have to do this alone.
The blade falls from my hand and hits the tile with a metallic clink that seems too loud in the quiet bathroom.
"Come here, Stardust."
The nickname, the one he gave me years ago when I was young and whole and shining, undoes me. I launch myself across the space between us, and he catches me and wraps his arms around me tight while I fall apart.
"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair, his voice rough. "I've got you. You're safe. I've got you."
I'm sobbing into his chest, gripping his shirt so tight my knuckles ache, shaking so hard my teeth chatter. He holds me through it, doesn't try to shush me or tell me it's okay or offer empty platitudes. Just holds me while I break, one arm banded across my back and the other cradling my head, and lets me shatter in his arms.
Time stops meaning anything. Could be minutes. Could be hours. All I know are Jackson's arms around me, his steady breathing, the way he's holding me together when everything else is falling apart.
