“And I don’t blame her,” I say sadly. “I deserve her hate.” Then, I look at Lucy. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”
The next day, I don’t wait outside. I go straight in. Maybe if she doesn’t have time to prepare, I’ll see something real. Something that tells me I haven’t completely lost her.
She looks at me as I sit down. There’s still distance there but not the same sharp anger.
“Why do you keep coming back?” she asks. Her voice is tired but not hostile.
“Because I treated you like shit,” I say simply, “and I want to make it right.”
She studies me for a moment. “So, if I tell you we’re all good, you’ll stop coming?”
I huff out a small breath. “No.”
She exhales, leaning back against the pillows. “Then it’s a waste of time.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Her eyes flicker with something—irritation, maybe—but it doesn’t stick. “What will make you stop coming?” she asks.
“When I see you’re better.”
She lets out a quiet, humourless laugh. “Better? What if I never get better?”
“You will,” I say, not even hesitating. “Storms don’t last forever, Wynter. They feel like they do when you’re in them, but they don’t. Things change, just like the seasons, dark skies becoming warmer. And slowly, things change.” She doesn’t look convinced. “One day,” I continue, softer now, “you’ll catch yourself smiling at something stupid. Or laughing at a memory. And it’ll feel wrong at first, but it won’t last. The light comes back.”
She watches me carefully. “How would you know?” she asks. There’s no bite to it, just . . . curiosity. “What if there was never light? When did you ever really ask me about my life?”
I nod slightly. “You’re right. I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t see you,” I add, “or feel something for you.”
She tilts her head slightly, sceptical. “Go on then,” she says. “What did you see?”
I hesitate just long enough for her to think I’ve got nothing. She gives me a small, almost smug smile. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“Like how you hate hummus.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s not exactly insightful. Most normal people hate hummus.”
“The way you scrunch your nose when you laugh,” I continue.
She rolls her eyes slightly. “Wow, I’m overwhelmed.”
I smile faintly. “The way you stand on your toes when you’re nervous,” I add. “Like you’re about to run but haven’t decided where to yet.”
She pauses, eyeing me warily.
“And the way you close your eyes when you take the first sip of tea,” I go on, quieter now. “Like the world can wait for a second while you enjoy it.” She doesn’t interrupt this time. “You pretend to like wine,” I add, “even though you hate it, because you think it makes you look put-together.”
A small breath leaves her.
“And you have an unhealthy addiction to hot chocolate,” I say. “Doesn’t matter what the weather is like outside.”
Her fingers tighten slightly in the blanket.
“You try to be quiet when you’re not feeling well . . . or hungover. You vomit quietly,” I say, smiling fondly, “like you don’t want to bother anyone.”
I hold her gaze. “I notice you, Wynter,” I say softly. “I always have.”
She looks away first. “There are things you don’t know,” she whispers. “Things that matter.”
