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Her eyebrows pull together. “Where?”

“I’ll show you.”

She studies me suspiciously. “Why?”

I glance around the room. At the broken vase, the tequila bottle, the books scattered across the floor.

“Because none of this seems to be working.”

Her face immediately changes. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

She looks away.

I give her a second.

“I’m not judging you, Nora.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Offering you something else to try.”

She studies my eyes for a long moment.

“I don’t think anyone can help me…” Her voice cracks on the last word, and something in my chest does with it.

She really believes that.

That wherever she is right now, she’s there alone.

“I just want to help.”

“I don’t need your help! Don’t you understand?” Her voice breaks. “The Nora I was? She laughed loudly, sang in the kitchen, danced in the rain, cracked idiot jokes just to make people laugh...” Her eyes gloss over. “She loved life and she didn’t know death.”

Her hand gestures toward herself.

“This...” she whispers. “This new me...”

She swallows hard and shakes her head, tears gathering in her eyes.

“I don’t recognize her.” She squares her shoulders. “And she can’t be helped.”

“Nora...”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Please leave.”

And there it is.

The door closing again.

Whatever she almost let me see is gone, hidden behind anger and squared shoulders.

So I nod.

And leave.

Eleonora