It throbbed with all the things she hadn’t said.
Catherine turned onto her side, every joint screaming in protest. She stared at the wall.
And finally, she whispered to the dark, “I could’ve died.”
Her voice cracked on the last word. The silence that followed seemed to answer.
And it wasn’t the pain or the surgery or the memories that undid her.
It was the thought that she could’ve slipped into the dark and Sloane never would’ve known how much she meant to her. How desperately Catherine had needed her. And how deeply, irreversibly she had loved her.
Tears welled, unbidden. They slipped down her cheeks, hot and quiet.
No one had ever told her that surviving could feel like failure.
She thought of Sloane’s hands, her laugh, the way she always saw more in Catherine than she wanted to show. The way she had kissed her, looked at her, touched her like she was something wild and soft and worth loving.
And she let her go.
Because she had never known how to keep someone. Only how to keep them out.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though there was no one to hear it. “God, I’m so sorry.”
The beep of the monitor stayed steady. The city outside kept moving.
But inside the room, inside her, something fractured further…and then, quietly, began to shift.
She had nearly died. And what terrified her most wasn’t the blood loss or the surgeries or the pain; it was the thought of dying with her heart sealed shut. With love left unspoken. With no one to sit by her side because she’d told them, again and again, to stay away.
She couldn’t live that way anymore.
Not if she wanted a life. A real one. One worth something more than prestige and control and perfect scars.
She reached for her phone again.
It took a long time to unlock it with trembling fingers. She scrolled to Sloane’s name. Her finger hovered over the message icon. Then the call button.
But she didn’t press it. Not yet.
Instead, she sat with the ache. Let it live in her chest. Let herself feel all of it.
And this time, she didn’t push it away.
She didn’t tell herself to be strong or still or silent.
She just…sat there. Bruised, broken, breathing.
Alive.
And for the first time, truly wanting to be.
The room dimmed into late afternoon, a filtered hush settling over the hospital floor. Catherine sat propped up by pillows, a tray of untouched soup beside her. She’d said she wasn’t hungry, but the truth was her appetite had vanished with the echo of silence.
She stared at the door when Olivia appeared, carrying a small bouquet of wildflowers and a thermos of her favorite ginger tea. The sight of her sister—gentle, steady Olivia—made something tight twist in Catherine’s chest.
Olivia set the flowers on the windowsill and sat beside her. “I thought you might like something not hospital-issued,” she said softly.
“Thank you,” Catherine murmured. She didn’t look up.
