“Okay,” she says. Steady. “I’ve got you.”
It gets worse before it gets better.
It always does.
I know that.
• • •
But the knowing doesn’t help when your chest won’t open and the boy you’ve loved since you were eight years old just looked you in the eyes and turned away.
My dad’s voice somewhere.
Then the car.
Then the lights of the hospital.
Bright and wrong and too much.
My mom doesn’t let go of my hand.
A nurse says panic attack like it’s simple.
Like it has clean edges.
I stare at the ceiling.
• • •
He turned away.
He stood at that window and looked at me — really looked — and then he turned away.
I press my fingers to my mouth.
They still remember him.
Both times.
And somewhere on the other side of that wall — with the curtain back in place and my number blocked —
he chose to forget me.
And I finally broke.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
• • •
Ever since that night, I’ve been on medication.
My parents still don’t know exactly what happened.
Just that Cassian stopped coming around after. And I think that was enough for them to connect the dots on their own.
I’m grateful for that.
