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It isn’t.

It’s not okay to look at Maddox and Evie—two people who’ve clawed their way out of fire and come out the other side—and taste bitterness at the back of my throat.

It’s not okay to watch them build a life I’ll never have and feel like my insides are collapsing, like I’m made of glass and someone keeps tapping me with a hammer, one hit at a time.

It’s not okay to ache for something my body took from me before I even knew how much I would grieve it. To want something so bad it feels like a scream trapped under my ribs.

Jealousy isn’t supposed to live beside love.

Grief isn’t supposed to stain joy.

But here I am—cracked wide open—choking on both.

And no amount of soft words or steady hands can make that hurt any less.

“You can’t keep bottling it up,” Sophie says. Her voice is gentle, like a hand smoothing hair back from a fevered brow. “You’re a ticking time bomb, Lou. Sooner or later, you’re going to explode.”

I laugh—an awful, broken sound that punches out of me like a gut wound. "Explode?" I choke out. "Explode?" I stagger back, the room tilting around me, my fists clenching so tight my nails cut into my palms.

My vision blurs as I stumble backward, the room pitching slightly, like the floor’s been pulled a few inches off center. I brace myself against the edge of the prep table, but it does nothing to steady me. My fists clench so tight my nails carve crescents into my palms, sharp and burning.

“I don’t get to explode,” I hiss, shaking my head like I can rattle the rage loose. “You think I have the luxury to fall apart? It’s easier to be the good time. The loud laugh. The reckless one who never gives a shit. It’s easier to let them think I’m fine than show them what’s actually rotting inside me. Easier to be the fucking joke than let anyone see the truth.”

Sophie’s face twists, her mouth opening like she wants to argue—but what comes out is a crack, rough and trembling, her voice bleeding with everything she’s held back.

“You’re not just a good time, Lou,” she says, her words shaky, but fierce. “You’re a damn pain in my ass.”

My breath catches.

“You’ve hovered over me my whole life, trying to fix every little thing—every broken nail, every scraped knee, every God damn mistake—like it was yours to carry. You took on everything. Like you could shield me from all of it. And maybe you did. Because of you…” Her voice breaks completely, ragged now. “Because of you, Mama leaving didn’t hurt as bad as it should have.”

The words land like bricks in my chest. Each one hitting a place that has already been cracked wide open.

But she doesn’t stop. Sophie steps forward, slow and deliberate, the air between us trembling like it’s holding its breath. Her eyes—those familiar, warm, wheat-colored eyes—are swimming with something raw. Something she’s never shown me before. Then, gently, without saying a word, she reaches out and hooks her pinky around mine.

The smallest touch. The simplest gesture. But it guts me more than anything else ever could. Like she just reached into the black hole inside me and found the last thread still tethered to hope—and held on.

She leans in, voice low, like it might break if she pushes too hard—but the words don’t need volume. They land sharp anyway, cutting through the air between us.

“You always thought I was too young to remember.”

I freeze. Something ancient in me flinches.

“But I do, Lou. I remember everything.”

Her eyes—those soft wheat-colored eyes—shine now, not just with tears, but with years. With ghosts. With grit.

“I remember Mama passed out cold on the floor, that vodka bottle tipped over like it belonged there. Like it was just part of the damn furniture. I remember the way her snoring used to rattle the walls, and how you never hesitated—not once—you’d just scoop me up like it was normal, like this was just how life worked. I remember how you bathed me in the kitchen sink because the tub was too damn cold and the heater never worked. I remember the smell of those little frozen dinners you’d split between us when Daddy was pulling doubles at the mill.”

Her voice thickens. So does the air.

“I remember watching you give me your last bite—God, Lou, you were just a kid yourself—and you still did it without even blinking. Like loving me meant going hungry sometimes, and that was just…the deal.”

My throat burns. There’s pressure behind my eyes—hot, relentless. That old ache I keep buried low starts clawing its way up my chest.

Don’t fall apart. Not here. Not now.

Sophie’s gaze doesn’t waver. There’s no pity in it, just memory—clear and sharp, like it never left her.