I swallow hard because a part of me wants to argue. Wants to say no, I have to do my part, I have to be fine, I have to not be a problem. But there’s another part of me—newer, quieter—that wants to accept help without turning it into shame.
Harlow: Ok.
His response is a single word.
Gray: good.
I stare at it until my eyes sting. Then I force myself out of bed before my brain can make a case for hiding.
By ten, I’ve done the things that usually convince me I’m functional.
Shower.
Hair.
A hoodie I’ve worn so many times it feels like armor.
I even eat half a bagel.
Not because I’m hungry. Because I know the difference between “my body needs fuel” and “my brain wants control,”and today I’m trying to be the kind of person who doesn’t let fear masquerade as discipline.
When my phone buzzes again, I nearly drop it.
Wren: I’m outside. Don’t make me text your brother.
Wren.
I know she’s been back for a couple weeks now, technically, but it still feels surreal that she’s in the same time zone again. In the same air. Close enough to show up at my door on a Tuesday like we’re sixteen and everything hasn’t changed.
I open the door, and she’s there like a burst of sunshine I didn’t order.
Her outfit of the day is an oversized T-shirt and faded jeans, completed with white sneakers.
She steps inside and takes one look at my face.
“Oh,” she says, voice immediately softer. “Okay. We’re doingnervousnervous.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Wren’s eyes narrow. “Harlow, I have known you since we were literal gremlins. Don’t lie to me on a day like today.”
My throat tightens, and I hate that I’m grateful. Because Wren doesn’t ask questions like traps. She asks like doors.
“I’m…okay,” I repeat, because it’s the only word that doesn’t feel like an invitation for my brain to spiral. Wren nods like she understands exactly what that means.
“Cool,” she says. “Then let’s get you ready.”
I snort.
She points at my bed. “Jersey. Now.”
My stomach flips again.
I’d put it away last night like it might combust if I stared at it too long. But when I pull it out, folded neat, Grayson’s number visible, my chest tightens so hard I have to breathe around it.
Because it’s still just fabric.
And yet?—
