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“By not feeling.” Her voice is a murmur. “I shut it off. And I guess if it’s really bad, I block it out completely. I didn’t realize I did that until my mother showed me what I’d forgotten.”

I glance at her. Her eyes are closed. I’m about to lose her to the sleep she needs so desperately.

“She thinks I’m strong because I can push everything into the dark. But it leaves me empty. And the dark always ends up finding me in my sleep.”

I know that darkness. She shuts off her feelings. And I feel too much. Hope and despair. We’re the same, but opposite.

I lift the chenille blanket off the back of the couch and lay it over her. Emma widens her eyes, like she’s trying to be awake. I sit on the coffee table across from her, holding a pillow from the other end of the couch. She sits up enough for me to place it under her head.

“Sorry,” Emma whispers, her lids too heavy to keep open. “I’m so tired.”

“I know.” This is something we do have in common. “You can sleep here if you want.”

“I’m just gonna rest before I go.”

I stand to turn off the music and the lights.

“Jonathan?” Turns me back around.

I crouch in front of her. “Yes, Emma.”

“Do you think you’ll ever love again?”

Where did that come from? Does she think that’s my fear? That I won’t love again?

“I think so,” I say, brushing back the hair that’s stuck to her lip. Truth is, I’m still in love. That’s not something fear, rage or hurt can take away. But maybe I can love someone else… in a different way. Someone who understands what it’s like not to be loved. And to love too much.

“I’ll see you in the morning. Get some sleep.”

Screaming rips me from the depths of sleep.

“Emma?”

I’m down the stairs in front of her as she gasps for breath. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

Tears stream down her cheeks. “I can’t do this anymore,” she sobs. “I’m so tired.”

“I know.” I ease onto the couch beside her. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I don’t know how to make it stop.” She blots the tears with the cuff of her sweatshirt. “Can I please have a glass of water?”

I stand from the couch as she continues to gather herself. Turning on the lights above the kitchen island, I retrieve a glass and fill it with water from the fridge.

“Where’s your television?”

“Oh, it’s in my bedroom.” I nod toward the stairs. “You need something to clear your head?”

“Anything,” she pleads, a note of desperation in her voice. “I can’t keep thinking about her trying to kill me anymore.”

“You can’t let her control you. Emma, you’re stronger than this. You just have to believe it.” I return to her with the water. What she said earlier comes back to me—how she blocks out the moments that hurt too much so she doesn’t have to face them. “Do you know what happened that night? Or did you block that out too?”

“I died,” she says with a shrug. “So I have no idea what happened.”

Emma can’t push this away like her feelings. The only way to release it is to remember it. She’s blocking out that night to avoid what happened. She refused to even attend the trial because she didn’t want to know the details. Instead, the trauma keeps replaying over and over again in her sleep. Her mind’s way of forcing it on her. Fucking with her.

“Emma—” Her eyes meet mine over the rim of the glass as she takes a sip. “Do you want to sleep better?”

She crinkles her brows. “What do you have in mind?”