She stares at our linked fingers for a second, as if she’s gathering herself.
Then she looks up and her voice goes soft. Honest.
“I need help,” she says.
My breath catches.
She tries to smile again, like she hates how serious it sounds.
“Like… real help,” she adds quietly. “Not ‘I’ll drink water and do yoga’ help.”
“Katia,” I whisper, tears burning behind my eyes. “Okay. I’m here.”
She nods, fast. “I’m tired, Tal.”
The words are simple, and they break me anyway.
“I want to go to rehab,” she says, the rest tumbling out in a rush, like she’s afraid she’ll lose the nerve if she pauses. “I’ve been trying. I swear I’ve been trying. I’ve called places. Emailed. Shown up and begged. And they all say the same thing.”
My chest tightens. “What?”
“Waiting lists,” she says, but there’s no sharp bitterness. Just exhausted disbelief. “Months. Like… cool, thanks, I’ll just schedule my crisis for September.”
She tries to laugh, but it breaks halfway.
I grip her hands tighter. “That’s insane.”
Katia nods, eyes shining. “It is. And I’m scared.”
The softness in her voice guts me.
“I’m scared I’m going to mess up again,” she whispers. “And I’m scared that one day I won’t want to stop. That I’ll just… let it take me.”
My throat closes.
“Katia,” I say, swallowing hard, “listen to me. You came here. That matters.”
Katia’s gaze drops. Shame flickers across her face.
“I know I’ve been a disaster for a while,” she says quietly. “I lied. I stole. I did dumb, ugly things. But I’m ready for a change.”
I lean forward and pull her into a hug.
She hugs me back immediately. Tight. Her arms wrap around me like she’s been starving for this, too.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” I whisper into her hair. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” she whispers back.
When I pull away, her face looks exhausted.
She rubs her eyes and attempts a small grin.
“I haven’t slept in two days,” she admits. “Which is probably why I’m being weirdly emotional.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“Okay,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “You can stay here. We have a guest room.”
