I slump into the seat, reclining my head and closing my eyes as I come to terms with everything that’s transpired over the last few days. I replay our conversations, even picking through memories of Adhira and me on the hammock after she’d been sobbing in the shower, and it hits me right in the gut that I hadn’t realised it sooner.
Much like her hair loss, Archie’s passing, while heartbreaking in its own right, is another physical manifestation of the ways cancer steals from you. His death was not only the painful loss of a friend; it was a reminder of her own mortality. And I can’t blame her for being terrified,especially when I am too.
CHAPTER
FIFTY
Today marksfive days since Adhira’s last real meal.
Not that she’s counting.
Her body reminds her in dull pulses—the faint tremble in her hands, the occasional swirl of nausea that’s no longer sharp but lingering, like a ghost of the pain that came before. Still, she’s bathed. Her hair, long and black as an ink spill across her spine, is damp and untamed, cascading over her shoulders as she sits forward in bed, arms wrapped around her bare legs, chin resting on her knees.
The room is dim, muted by drawn curtains and shadows that have overstayed their welcome. The air smells faintly of bergamot and unspoken needs.
She hasn’t watched the latest episode of the show she once shared with Elijah. A week ago, they would’ve sat together on thesofa, his feet crossed at the ankles, her body hidden beneath a mountain of blankets, arguing over theories and plot holes.
Now silence has taken his place.
And yet, even in his absence, he remains, woven into the fibres of her bedsheets, the dent in her pillow, the echo of his laugh trapped somewhere near the closet door.
His sisters ask about her more frequently now, their small voices tinged with confusion. And Elijah, gentle-hearted and exhausted, tells them what they need to hear: Adhira is grieving. She’s not gone. She just needs time.
They miss her.
He tells her this, casually, kindly—just once, through the door. She doesn’t respond.
At least, not aloud.
But the words burrow under her ribs, nestling deep in the place where her grief has made a home. The ache doesn’t disappear; it’s not that easy, but it shifts, softens. The kind of soft that still stings when touched but no longer leaves her breathless.
Adhira has been accused more than once of being unreadable, an enigma of a woman who rarely emotes. But if they could see her now, see how tightly she clutches her own limbs just to stay anchored, they would know.
She feels it all.
Too much, maybe.
Outside her door, Elijah doesn’t knock this time. He simply places his hand flat against the wood, fingertips splayed, forehead leaning forward as though he could will her to feel his presence.
“The girls are about to call for their bedtime story,” he says, voice low, careful. “They miss you.”
I miss you,he doesn’t say.
But the door hears it. The wood remembers.
Inside, Adhira’s eyes snap to the sound, wide and watchful. Her breath stills. Her body becomes stone. And when silence follows, her heart begins to thump again, a quiet rhythm spoken against the inside of her chest.
Several minutes pass. Maybe more.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she pushes the covers off. Her feet hit the carpet like raindrops, quiet and careful. Every movement costs her something, but she pays without complaint. She crosses the room with a kind of reverence, as if afraid the moment might vanish if she moves too fast. And when she reaches the door, she lowers herself, spine curling gently until she is seated on the floor, back pressed against the same panel his hand touched only minutes ago.
She closes her eyes, pulls her knees to her chest, and listens.
A phone rings.
He answers it without hesitation, his voice softening into something tender, worn smooth by affection and fatigue. On the other side of the door, he mirrors her unknowingly, their bodies separated by only an inch of aged wood and too many words unspoken.
His voice flows through the cracks like water. He spins a story for the girls, as he always does, never acknowledging how they’ve all become different. They’ve becomehers.
