When I asked why, she only shrugged, avoiding my eyes.“There’s nothing worth writing in it anymore.”
I brought it up with Patricia, and she assured me that changes like these are common with age, especially in children who’ve been through trauma. Not normal, exactly. But understandable.
Alicia has even started talking about quitting ballet. But after her last session, she said she’d keep going. For now.
Therapy is helping. It’s slow, invisible work, but I have to believe she’s finding her way back.
I still haven’t found a therapist for myself. Or maybe… I’m avoiding it.
Because I’m terrified that saying these things out loud will drag me back. Back to the mornings when just breathing hurt.
Back to the version of myself who survived only because of Alicia and Ethan. Only because their hearts needed mine to keep beating.
Chapter 21
February
love pointed in the wrong direction
Cecily
The doorbell rings not even a full minute after I end a video call with my editor.
I frown, the muscles in my chest already tightening, bracing for another unwelcome visit, another wave of bad news waiting on my doorstep.
I open the app.
A young girl—no, a woman, but barely—stands outside, staring straight into the camera lens.
Something that looks like a large gift box is clutched tightly in her hands, her fingers curled around it as though letting go would mean losing her courage altogether.
I take a breath and walk to the door.
I open it only halfway, enough for her to see me, but keeping the door as a shield.
“How can I help you?” I ask, cautious.
“Hi,” she says, her voice little more than a breath. “I—I just… wanted to give you this.”
She lifts the box slightly, her fingers trembling around the edges.
“And to tell you something. I don’t need to come in.”
There’s something solemn in her eyes, a darkness that doesn’t belong to someone so young.
“I read your articles,” she says after a pause. “Your blog too.”
Her gaze drops to the ground, the words tumbling out like a confession she’s ashamed to make.
My heart pulls tight in my chest.
“I don’t even know how to explain it,” she continues, “but your words… they did something to me. You wrote with so much strength and honesty. Even when it was clear your whole world was collapsing. It made me think you might want to see what’s in this box.”
“I’m sorry… who are you?” I ask as a sudden chill runs through me.
She offers a small, nervous smile. “Of course—sorry. You don’t know me. I’m Chloe… Maya’s cousin.”
Her name, her relation, makes me tighten my grip on the door.
