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My jaw gets tighter and tighter with each question. “We don’t ask.”

“No. You don’t ask. I’m not a Wilde’s Endener⁠—”

“Wender.”

“Sure. That. So your rules don’t apply to me.” He sets a soft hand on my knee. “I want to know.”

“You don’t.”

“I want to know so I can understand you better.”

He might believe that, but he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Even if I wanted to tell him, I doubt I could say the words out loud. I’ve never tried, and as the years stretch on, the distance between me and what happened grows to the point I’m mostly able to forget it. Mostly. Until those moments it catches me by surprise so swiftly it feels like I’m back there again, and I can’t breathe.

“There’s nothing to know,” I answer stiffly.

“We both know that’s a lie. It might help to let it out.”

My laugh is bitter. “Help what? Who does it help?”

“You, obviously.” He’s not backing down. “Whatever happened, you can’t just bottle it up.”

That’s where he’s wrong. I’ve bottled it ever since, and as long as I’m careful not to disturb it, the memories leave me alone. Bottling works. Separating myself from what happened is the only way I was able to keep going. “I can do what I want.”

“Really? Because you’re struggling to tell me.”

“Because I don’t want to tell you.”

“I think you do though.” His blue eyes stubbornly lock on mine. “I think it would make you feel better.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me so I do!”

I shove out of the chair, wanting to storm out, but the rain outside gets heavier, like it’s reminding me that I’m trapped in here. “Nothing can make me feel better. Nothing can undo it. Talking about it will just bring everything back up again, and …” I can hear the screaming. “And I won’t. I can’t.” My voice breaks, and this is exactly what I was terrified of happening. That pressure on my chest grows, becomes suffocating and makes it hard to stand up. It’s been years, years, and I still can’t escape it. Not really. The pounding on the front door. Getting scared of the raised voices. Hiding. The reminder splinters through me.

“What happened?” he whispers.

I rub my hands against my eyes, trying to force away the images. “My whole family was murdered,” I snap. “My parents and my younger brother and sister. Happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

When I can finally look at him again, his eyes are wet. “I’m so sorry.”

I snort, pacing to the door, remembering the storm, and pacing back again. I feel caged. By Sasha’s sympathy, by the weather, by the sweet smell of the bread my mom used to cook and the way the memories are pounding at my brain.

“How … how did you …”

How did I survive? I know it’s what he wants to ask, and it’s that part that haunts me. The part that makes it impossible to move on. The words taste like poison on my tongue. “I hid.” Even as I say the words, I know Sasha is going to hate me as much as I do. “I watched everyone I loved die, and instead of helping, instead of doing anything, I froze.”

I got to live while they died. I knew I was supposed to go to them. I knew I was supposed to protect my siblings. I knew it was bad, and I was their older brother, and they meant more to me than anything in the world.

I knew all that, and I couldn’t move anyway.

I was trapped.

And nothing I do will ever make up for that.

“That’s not your fault.”

“Who else’s fault is it?”