I climb into the bed beside her, wrapping my arms around her shaking body. She clings to me like she’s still trying to drag them from the darkness. I hold her tighter, whispering whatever words come out. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, but she needs to hear something.Anything.
After a while, her breathing slows, though her body still trembles against me. Then, in a voice so small it almost breaks me, she whispers, “Do you remember when Mom would make pancakes shaped like animals?”
A ghost of a smile touches my mouth. “Yeah, you always wanted a cat, but she could never get the ears right.”
A soft laugh escapes her—fragile, fleeting—but for a second, she’s just my sister again, the one from before.
“I really miss them,” she murmurs.
“I know.” I brush her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.
She swallows hard, her lashes wet from tears. “I hate sleeping.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “Me too.”
I stay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks I’ve memorized. Eventually, she falls asleep again. However, every time I close my eyes, I see her lying in that hospital bed, tiny and pale, hooked up to too many machines, so I jolt awake. I just lie there and wait for the light to start shifting through the curtains before I finally rise and head down the hall.
The kitchen looks exactly the same as before. The same mess. The same silence. I drop my phone on the counter and stare at it for a while. The screen lights with the faint reflection of my face — tired eyes that are red-rimmed and hollow. The voicemail sits there at the top of my screen. It’s the one I’ve never been able to delete. My thumb hovers over it, and I press play. My mom’s voice fills the room, soft and steady, untouched by everything that’s happened since.
“Hey, sweetheart. Just calling to check in. I know you’re busy, but call me when you get a chance, okay? We miss you. And we’re so proud of you. Love you.”
I close my eyes and press the phone against my chest. If I stay still enough, I can almost pretend she’s still here.
Almost.
The anger comes quietly, curling beneath my ribs. I’m angry at the world, at myself, and at everything I can’t fix, but mostly, it’s just the ache that never leaves.
Before the accident, I had plans. I was going to finish my degree, maybe work in research, maybe actuallydosomething that mattered, and I had a future. Now there’s just what’s left—the version of me that runs on coffee, worry, and whatever pieces I can still hold together. The rest of me didn’t make it out.
Chapter 1
Promises and Poor Life Choices
Present Day
Violet
“Ella, I swear to Christ, if you don’t get out of that bathroom in the next two minutes, I’m cutting the Wi-Fi and hiding your phone!” Steam rolls out from under the bathroom door, thick and damp, carrying the smell of her shampoo with it. Music thumps behind the wall, louder than my patience.
I flip the last pancake onto the stack that’s already gone cold. I know she’s not going to eat them. She never does when she’s running late, but I’m trying.
The door finally swings open, and Ella steps out, hair dripping, eyeliner perfect, and a face calm in that infuriating teenage way. She doesn’t even glance at the plate waiting on the counter. Instead, she grabs a banana.
“If you’d just let me go to Langport, I wouldn’t have to catch the bus.”
Here we go again. I take a breath through my teeth. “We’ve talked about this.”
“You’ve talked,” she mutters, “I’ve listened.”
“Even with your scholarship, I can’t afford the rest. I’d have to—” I stop before I say something I shouldn’t.Start making drugs again.
Langport. She says it like it’s a dream or a fairytale. I can still hear her voice from last night, rambling about ivy-covered walls and professors with accents, about how she’d finally get out of here and do something big.
She earned her way in—no surprise there. She’s always been the one who fights her way through everything, but even with the scholarship, it’s too much. Flights, housing, and all the things no one mentions in the acceptance letter are costly.
I should tell her no again, remind her we can’t afford it. Instead, I just stare at the cold pancakes and wonder when I became the person who has to break her dreams, and when being practical started to feel like betrayal.
Her chin lifts, that stubborn tilt I know too well. “Mom and Dad would have found a way.”
