The nurses came in quickly, two of them moving with efficient calm that suggested they'd done this a thousand times before. They checked my vitals, asked me questions I could barely answer with nods or headshakes, adjusted the IV and made notes on a chart I couldn't see. Through all of it, Rook stayed close, watching everything they did with an intensity that would have been funny if it wasn't so clearly born from terror.
“Throat's going to be sore for a while,” one of the nurses said gently, meeting my eyes with a kindness that made me want to cry again. “They had to pump your stomach. You're lucky your boyfriend found you when he did.”
Lucky. The word felt wrong for what had happened, but I didn't have the energy to argue.
“Doctor will be by in a bit to check on you,” the other nurse added. “Try to rest. You've been through a lot.”
They left, and the room went quiet again except for the beeping of the machines and the sound of Rook's breathing beside me. He'd sat back down in the chair but hadn't let go of my hand, and I could see the exhaustion and fear still written all over his face.
“How long?” I managed, and my voice came out as a rasp that barely sounded like me. “And boyfriend?”
“Two days. And I had to tell them that to make sure I can get in here.” He said it quietly, like the number itself was painful. “They weren't sure when you'd wake up, or if you'd—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “You scared the shit out of me, Soren.”
“I'm sorry.” The words felt inadequate for what I'd done, but they were all I had.
“Why?” The question came out of him like it had been building for days. “Why did you—” He stopped, voice breaking. “I need to understand, Soren. Please.”
I looked at him properly for the first time since waking up and saw how wrecked he was. The beard and the exhaustion and the red eyes all pointed to a man who'd been falling apart while waiting for me to wake up. The sight of him like that—devastated because of me—made the tears start again.
“I couldn't—” My throat hurt too much to get the words out cleanly. “Everything was too much. I didn't know how to keep going.”
“So you decided to stop.” He said it without judgment, just stating the terrible truth. “You tried to?—”
“Yeah.” I couldn't make myself say the words either. “I'm sorry, Rook. I'm so fucking sorry.”
He made a noise that might have been a sob or a laugh or both, and then he was leaning forward to rest his forehead against our joined hands. “Don't apologize for being in pain. That's not—that's not what I need from you.”
“Then what do you need?”
“The truth.” He looked up at me with eyes that were swimming with tears he was trying not to let fall. “All of it. No more hiding, no more deflecting. I need to know what you've been carrying so I can help you hold it.”
I should have deflected anyway. But I was too tired to perform anymore, too raw to pretend I had anything left to protect.
“I need to show you a thing first,” I said, and lifted my left wrist as much as the IV would allow.
The bracelet was still there, thin brown leather with a small silver charm that caught the hospital light. Rook's eyes tracked to it, and I watched him try to figure out why I was showing him a piece of jewelry in the middle of a conversation about why I'd tried to die.
“It's from the rehab center,” I said, and the words felt like they were being dragged out of me. “From the first time I tried this.”
His face went pale. “The first time.”
“Yeah.” I traced the charm with my thumb, the motion automatic from years of doing it whenever the noise in my head got too loud. “I was twenty-two. Just got custody of Talia and Micah, Poppy was still with foster care, and everything was falling apart faster than I could hold it together. I couldn't afford rent, couldn't find work that paid enough, couldn't stop the panic attacks that made it impossible to function.”
Rook's grip on my hand tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
“I took a bottle of my mom's old sleeping pills and washed them down with whatever alcohol I could find. Talia found me passed out on the bathroom floor and called an ambulance.” The memory was distant enough that I could say it without breaking, but only barely. “They pumped my stomach, kept me for observation, and then sent me to a treatment center for two weeks because I was a danger to myself.”
“Soren—”
“The bracelet was from there. One of the counselors gave it to me on my last day. Said it was supposed to remind me that I'd survived the worst day of my life and I could survive whatevercame next.” I laughed, but the sound came out hollow. “Wore it every day since. Thought maybe if I kept it on I'd remember that I was supposed to stay. Supposed to keep fighting.”
“But you forgot.” His voice was wrecked, barely above a whisper.
“Not forgot. Just—stopped believing it mattered.” I looked away from him because seeing the pain on his face was too much. “It all just piled up until I couldn't see a way through anymore.”
The silence stretched between us, and I waited for him to say I was weak or broken or too damaged to be worth the effort. Waited for him to let go of my hand and walk away now that he knew the full extent of what I'd been hiding.
Instead, he stood up and leaned over the bed rails to press his forehead against mine.
