And when I’ve thought of every single person I care about, shedding a few extra tears for Archie’s family—who I’m sure are missing his quick wit and wide smiles something fierce—I cry for myself.
Every painful piece of my past crawls beneath my skin, begging to be set free. And rather than beating them back into submission, I slice my heart open and bleed myself dry in the name ofhealing.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
I wakeup for the first time in days feelingsafe.
My eyes are practically swollen shut from all the tears I shed last night, but I can hear the steady, comforting rhythm of Elijah’s beating heart beneath my ear, and his warm, thick arms cradling me against his chest. I wriggle against him, stretching out my limbs, and slowly work my lids open.
His pulse quickens, his hand smoothing over the top of my head and down my spine, landing softly just above my bum. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he whispers in a husky voice, sending tingles through my whole body.
I peer up to find his sleep-mussed waves and glasses-less face, and it hits me just how much I feel for this man. My heart stops in my chest—maybe it’s just a palpitation, but either way, I’m lost in the endless abyss of his eyes, held hostage by the comfort I’m finding impossible to resist there.
“Good morning, princess,” I say when oxygen has found its way into my lungs and my heart has had a chance to restart.
“Is it alright that I’m holding you like this?” he asks, and the idea of leaving the warmth of his arms right now has me feeling like an absolute mess.
“I, regrettably, sort of love it,” I admit, my entire face flaming.This must be how he feels with all that blushing he does.
His dimples make an appearance alongside the most gorgeous, glowing smile that lights up his face and the little haven he’s created for us in this pillow fort. He squeezes me tighter, and I let out a puff of laughter when he loosens his grip.
“I’m happy to finally see you smile again,” he whispers, and the air surrounding us feels like it’s been sucked out through a straw. “I missed you while you were gone.”
“I missed myself too,” I admit, my lungs heaving for air. “And you, of course,” I tease, though the words lack the underlying humour they should carry.
He reaches out to stroke my cheek with the pad of his thumb, the touch impossibly soothing. “Are you ready to talk aboutwhyyou reacted the way you did? I’ve experienced a lot of grief in my life, and everyone grieves differently, but your reaction felt…unusual for you.”
I’m not sure I like that he can see right through me.
As much as it makes my skin crawl, Idothink talking about it would be a relief. And I owe him this much.
“I’ve done a decent job of leaning into my own denial the last few months,” I say, lowering myself onto my side so half my body is flush with his and my ear rests over his heart, giving me the strength I so desperately need to get these words out. “I’d distracted myself with my shows, taking on new hobbies, reminding myself of the statistical outcomes of my condition,pushing out the logic that I am human andanythingcan happen.”
Elijah hums his understanding.
“When my hair started falling out after I learned I needed another cycle, it hit me that I wasn’t invincible, and that statistics don’t reflect every possible outcome. Losing my hair wasn’t the problem—it was seeing my illness manifest itself in a way I couldn’t deny. I was, and still am,sick.And when Archie—” A sob threatens to strangle me, climbing up my throat, but I manage to push it back down, steadying myself before continuing. “When I found out about Archie, it was just another reminder that life is fleeting, and we can be taken from those who love us, no matter how hard we fight that reality.”
We sit in silence for several minutes as I regain control of my ragged breathing and swim through the thoughts I’ve spent days unable to unravel. I draw in a final, revitalising breath and speak the words I’ve been unknowingly terrified to say: “I’m afraid to die, and Archie reminded me that Icoulddie as a result of this disease.”
“Adhira,” Elijah whispers, his voice bleeding with heartbreak as he tugs me closer, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been going through these last few months, but I’m always here to talk about it. Any of it, sweet girl.”
“You’ve been such a huge support these last few months, but I don’t want to put all of this heaviness on you either.” I don’t want him to continue taking on this caretaker role he never signed up for in the first place. Not with me, not with his mum, his sisters, or his gran.
He doesn’t protest. His arms fall to his sides, his clenched jaw softening.
I want to share things with him because it’s becoming clear that’s what he prefers, too, but he can’t be the only person I talkto. “Have you ever considered therapy?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that.With any luck, I’ll have the time to try.
“Briefly, but then I was afraid to be faced with the things that bother me,” I admit, feeling so freaking weak for even having had that thought.
“That’s a normal response. We don’t often willingly open ourselves up to our trauma, and truthfully, therapy sucks,” he says with a light chuckle. “It has a way of making you think deeply about why you react the way you do and helps you overcome it, but it’s also beyond draining, like a mental workout from hell. Some days are super enlightening and leave me feeling like I’m ready to tackle my problems head-on, and others have me needing a three-hour nap after the emotional exertion.”
“I didn’t realise you were in therapy,” I say dumbly, because of course I wouldn’t know that unless I’d asked. I’ve had my head so far up my own arse these last few months that there’s no way I’d have even thought to ask about how he handled his mum’s diagnosis beyond what he’s shared with me.
“I went a lot more often after Mum went into remission, but now I speak with my therapist a couple of times a year, or if something comes up and it’s crushing me. I think it could be really helpful for you if you’re open to giving it a try. My mum started near the end of her treatment to cope with her fear of receiving bad news, and then after that, she was hit with a heavy wave of survivor's guilt. In general, she felt guilty for needing me so much.”
“And it helped her?” I ask, hesitant but hopeful.
