"Yes, I do." She turns to look at me, and I glance over, catching the sincerity in her expression. "I don't know why you're doing this. Why you care this much. But thank you."
Because I love you.
The words sit on my tongue, heavy and dangerous. I swallow them back.
"You're welcome."
We pull into the driveway. Emma's car is back, which means she's home with Ethan. Maya makes no move to get out, just sits there staring at the house.
"I'm going to keep going," she says finally. "To therapy. I'm going to try to get better."
"I know."
"And I'm going to stop cutting. Or at least try. Dr. Mills gave me some alternatives. Things to do when the urge gets bad." She pulls out a small card with a list scribbled on it. "Ice cubes. Rubber bands. Drawing on my skin instead of cutting it."
Relief floods through me. "That's good."
"I'm still going to have bad days. Still going to struggle. This isn't going to be a quick fix." She looks at me. "She said recovery takes time. That there will be setbacks."
"I know that too."
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Thank you for not giving up on me."
Then she's out of the car, heading inside before I can respond.
I sit in the driveway for a few minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, her touch still burning on my skin.
She thanked me for not giving up on her, as if there was ever a chance I would.
I'd do anything for her. Sit in parking lots. Pay for therapy. Hold her while she falls apart. Drive her to appointments. Research trauma recovery until my eyes blur. Whatever she needs, whenever she needs it.
Because somewhere along the way, protecting Maya stopped being about duty or friendship or even the love I've been carrying for years.
It’s become the only thing that matters.
And that terrifies me almost as much as finding her with that blade last night.
12
MAYA
Therapy for the next couple of weeks is brutal.
Dr. Mills doesn't sugarcoat anything, doesn't let me deflect with humor or change the subject when it gets uncomfortable. She just sits there with her kind eyes and patient voice and makes me talk about things I'd rather forget.
But it's working. Slowly. The nightmares are still there, but less frequent. I can go a full day without the urge to cut becoming overwhelming. I'm sleeping more than three hours a night.
Progress. Small, painful progress.
"Maya!" Emma appears in the guest room doorway, Ethan on her hip. "We're going to the game tonight. You should come."
I haven't been to one of Jackson's games since I got here, haven't wanted to be in crowds, haven't wanted the noise and chaos.
But Dr. Mills said I need to push myself, start doing normal things again, even when they're uncomfortable.
"Sure. Why not?"
Emma's face lights up. "Really? Oh good. Ethan loves watching them."
