She opens her eyes and looks at me like she’s drowning.
“I held it together,” she whispers. “All day. I did everything right. I smiled. I hugged people. I thanked them. I listened to stories. I didn’t fall apart once.”
Her voice turns sharp with self-hatred. “And I didn’t even want to. I just—did it. Like a robot.”
My throat burns.
I don’t tell her it’s okay. I don’t tell her she’s strong. Those are the words people say when they’re uncomfortable with pain.
Instead, I do the only honest thing.
I reach out and gently tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear.
Her breath catches like she didn’t expect touch.
“I saw you,” I say. “All day, I saw you.”
Her lips part. “And?”
“And you don’t have to perform anything for me,” I tell her. “You don’t have to be okay. You don’t have to be…pretty about it.”
A tear slips down her cheek.
She wipes it fast, angry at it.
I catch her wrist lightly—not stopping her, just grounding her.
“Sloane,” I say, and she stills.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I add, voice low. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not…any of it. I’m here.”
Her eyes search mine, like she’s looking for the lie.
She doesn’t find it.
Her shoulders cave.
The sound that comes out of her is small and wrecked, like her whole body is finally tired of holding up the roof.
I step in and pull her against my chest.
Not tight. Not crushing.
Just enough.
She clutches the sweatshirt between us with one hand and grips my shirt with the other, fingers twisting in the fabric like I’m a rope and she’s afraid the water will take her.
I rest my cheek against the top of her head and breathe her in—soap and heat and grief.
I don’t say anything.
Because she doesn’t need words.
She needs proof.
So I give it to her.
I hold her while she shakes.
