There it is again.
Automatic.
Cameron nods like he believes me because he needs to believe me.
Logan goes still in that way he does when he wants to argue and refuses.
I turn and walk down the hallway.
Each step feels like it belongs to someone else.
My bedroom door is open. My bed is made. The black dress I wore today hangs over the chair like a dead thing.
I don’t look at it.
I keep moving.
The bathroom is at the end of the hall, the one I share with Logan—the one that still has his toothbrush in the holder and my hair ties on the counter and Pops’s extra-strength ibuprofen in the cabinet because he always got headaches long before the tumor made them mean something.
I shut the door.
Lock it.
My hands are steady.
My chest is not.
I turn the shower on.
The pipes groan for a second, then the water starts cold and sharp, splashing against porcelain. I adjust it, watching the steam begin to rise like breath.
I stand there with my fingers on the faucet until the water is hot enough to feel like punishment.
Then I step out of the rest of my clothes like I’m stripping off a costume.
Black knee-highs. Black bra. Black underwear.
I fold them neatly because my brain still thinks neatness can control chaos.
Then I step into the shower.
The water hits my shoulders, hot and heavy, and for a second, it steals my breath.
It should feel comforting.
It doesn’t.
It feels like being under something relentless.
I tilt my face up into it, letting it run over my closed eyes, down my cheeks.
And my body finally—finally—lets go.
It starts as a sound I don’t recognize.
A broken inhale.
A hitch.
