“You called because Nico asked to see me,” I said carefully. “Not to pick apart my life choices.”
A beat. Then, smooth as a blade sliding into place.
“I’m glad you’re seeking help,” he said. “Truly. But understand this, a situation like this attracts attention. Sponsors. Federations. Press. People ask questions.” His tone sharpened by a millimetre. “And they do not like mess.”
There it was. Reputation. Control. Image.
“Though I hear you’ve relocated to Chicago. Training with Miller, of all people. A step down, certainly, but perhaps more... suited to your current capabilities.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“It’s an observation,” he said. “Let me know when you’ve scheduled your flight. I will make arrangements with the hospital. Please put his mental health first. Don’t make it worse.”
I swallowed the anger and the shame and the grief all at once. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
The line went dead.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the phone in my hand. My whole body was shaking. Not from fear—from rage. From the old, familiar shame that Renaud had always known exactly how to trigger.
You crumbled. You collapsed. You couldn’t handle it. You’re not good enough. You never were.
The whispers in my head sounded exactly like his voice.
I got up. I didn’t know where I was going until I was already in Derek’s bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet, then the drawers, then the cupboard under the sink. I wasn’t looking for anything specific. I was just looking. My hands moved onautopilot, searching, until my fingers closed around a pack of disposable razors.
I sat down on the edge of the tub.
The plastic was cheap, flimsy. It would be easy to break apart. To get to the blade inside. I’d done it before—more times than I could count. The relief it brought was temporary, I knew that. A pressure valve. A way to make the noise stop, just for a moment.
My hands were shaking.
You promised, a voice in my head whispered.You promised your mom. You promised yourself.
But Nico was in a hospital bed because he’d wanted to die, and I was the one who’d left him, and the guilt was so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.
I turned the razor over in my hands.
Just one. Just to take the edge off. No one has to know.
My phone buzzed.
Derek’s name flashed on the screen. A FaceTime call.
I stared at it for three rings. Four. My thumb hovered over the decline button.
Then I answered.
His face filled the screen—smiling at first, that warm easy grin, but it faded almost instantly.
“Théo? What’s wrong?”
I opened my mouth to say nothing. To say I’m fine. To deflect and distract and hide, the way I always did.
Instead, what came out was a sob.
“Théo.” His voice sharpened. “Talk to me. What happened?”
