And my dad tends them alone.
And I’m still on medication.
And the panic attacks still come.
And the grey still finds me on the good days.
Maybe Cassian was never the cure.
Maybe I’ve just been using him as one.
Maybe I’m not better at all.
Maybe I’m just broken.
And the distance between those two things — between better and broken —
is the size of a garden full of daisies she’ll never tend again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
I took an extra pill after the panic attack.
Just one.
Just enough to take the edge off and let my body finally give out.
We decided not to tell my dad it was happening again.
He has enough going on right now.
And I already have so much to feel guilty about that adding one more thing to the pile felt wrong.
The pile is very tall right now.
Structurally unstable.
We’re not adding to it.
• • •
I wake up to Cassian sitting on the edge of my bed looking annoyingly awake and well-rested.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Hi.” I pull the covers over my face. “Don’t look at me. I’m too embarrassed.”
“You literally cry all the time,” he says. “I’ve seen you cry at a commercial.”
“It was a very emotional commercial.”
“It was for paper towels.”
“The dad was proud of his daughter —”
He rips the covers off.
