But the way he looked at me...
I shake my head, pushing the thought away.
It doesn't matter.
Nothing's going to change.
Leviathan might have seen, but seeing isn't the same as caring.
He's got a club to run, a hundred problems more important than some brother's girlfriend.
I'm nothing to him. I'm nothing to anyone.
You'd be nothing without me.
Cain's voice echoes in my head, and I close my eyes against the familiar sting of tears.
He's right. He's always right.
Three years of hearing those words, and I've internalized them so deeply they feel like truth.
Like gospel. Like the fundamental law of the universe.
I am nothing. I have nothing. Without Cain, I would disappear entirely.
So why can't I stop thinking about the way Leviathan said my name?
The morning passes slowly.
I clean the apartment—again—even though it's already spotless.
I do the laundry, fold it precisely the way Cain likes.
I prepare ingredients for dinner, chopping vegetables into perfect uniform pieces, losing myself in the repetitive motion of the knife.
This is my life. These small tasks. These tiny acts of service designed to keep the peace.
I used to have dreams—big, colorful dreams about standing in front of a classroom, about watching kids fall in love with words the way I did.
Now my dreams have shrunk down to nothing.
To survive. To make it through another day without setting him off.
Around noon, my phone buzzes.
I jump—I always jump—and grab it from the counter.
A text from my mother:
Hey sweetheart. Just checking in. Haven't heard from you in a while. Call me when you get a chance? Love you.
My throat tightens.
I want to call her. Want to hear her voice, her loud Pittsburgh accent, her no-nonsense advice about everything from football to relationships.
I want to tell her what's happening, what's been happening for years now.
I want to ask her to come get me, to take me home, to make everything okay.
