My feet are rooted to the concrete. If I step in, I’ll shatter. I’ll drown. “I tried to save you.”
She doesn’t respond right away, just trails her fingers through the water until gentle ripples reach toward me but never touch.
Tears burn behind my eyes. “I didn’t get to you in time.”
“No,” she says. “But you tried.And I want you to try again. This time, for you.”
I stare at her. She’s wearing the teal swimsuit she cried about the summer Mom bought it too small.
Stella sits at the edge of the pool, knees pulled up, one arm hugging her legs.
I can’t move. Can’t speak.
“They didn’t take it all,” she says, not looking at me. “That wasn’t the point.”
I shake my head. “Take what?”
“The weight,” she whispers, tapping her temple. “The ugly thing. The part wrapped too tightly around you.”
She lifts her eyes to mine, and they’re not sad.
They’re steady. Kind.
I miss them so much. Those eyes.
The way she’d look at me like I was her greatest protector.
“We couldn’t touch the center. It’s still there. But we carved out space. Enough to stay. Enough to keep the music going.”
I feel like I’m splitting open.
And then my vision blurs. Fogs. Slips away.
No.
I was only allowed a glimpse.
“My eyes… Stella, I can’t—”
Her hand reaches out, brushes just beneath mine in the water. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “That part’s gone. But you don’t need eyes to see. Not really.”
I squint hard, but I can’t see her anymore. She’s a mirage.
All I can make out is the water glowing around her as she stands, the pool casting reflections that dance across her skin like candlelight.
A warm hand presses over my eyes. “You won’t get this back,” she whispers. “But you’ll get other things. Things that matter more. If you let yourself stay.”
“What happens next?” I rasp, melting beneath her touch.
The shape of her head tilts like it used to when I’d ask her questions. “You’ll find out. Bit by bit. There’ll be scans. Time. Careful watching. But the story’s not over, Chase.”
She steps back, water dripping from her fingers, each drop catching a shimmer of that fading, dream-spun sun. It’s all I can make out.
“Live loud,” she says. “Louder than the loss. Louder than the fear. Loud enough for both of us.”
The cicadas quiet.
The light bends. Dims.
