Chapter 157

Chapter 157
“Do I though?” I ask, my voice quiet but cutting. The words escape like a blade sliding out of its sheath. Her breath catches and her steps falter.
She stops moving.
Frowns.
The room holds its breath.
“What?” she asks, low. Wounded.
I don’t mean to say it, but now that it’s out, I can’t pull it back in.
“Do I really know you?” I say again, quieter this time, eyes locked on hers. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. For the first time tonight, she’s still.
The silence that follows is worse than the shouting.
My hands are still stained from the firewood. My pulse is still ragged from everything she’s just thrown at me. And her....she looks like she’s about to cry or scream or maybe both, but for now she just stands there.
She looks confused, like she didn’t hear me right. But I don’t flinch. I don’t soften. I go on, slower this time. Firmer. “You lied.”
Her brows knit. “What are you—?”
“Did your mom tell you to forget about it,” I cut in, voice low but stern, “or was that all you?”
The color drains from her face before she even realizes what I’m talking about.
Then the realization hits her like a storm surge, flooding in too fast to brace against. She shakes her head slowly, like that alone could rewind everything.
“Stop it,” she whispers, voice trembling, broken at the edges.
But I can’t.
I can’t.
This is the part I always keep under lock and chain...the place even she doesn’t touch.
But tonight we’re clearly past the breaking point, and everything’s rising.
“Isn’t that why you’re really scared?” I ask, my voice sharper now. “Why you think everyone’s gonna leave if you don’t cut out a part of yourself first? If you don’t bleed just enough to keep them?”
“Stop it,” she says again, louder now, eyes glassy. “ Just fucking stop it!”
God, I hate that look in her eyes. That haunted, cornered-animal kind of fear. That ache I’ve tried so hard to keep her from ever feeling again.
But she wanted the truth. And this...this is the only way I know how to give it.
“Have you ever brought it up in therapy?” I ask, and she flinches like the words hit her skin.
“Ever told anyone about it?...Would you have ever told me?!” I push.
“Don’t—” she says, voice cracking. “Don’t make this about me.”
“But it is,” I shout, stepping forward. “Everything I’ve done, every fucking choice I make, you orbit the center of it. I carry your name in my chest like a damn brand, and you think I wouldn’t notice the way you hide what matters most like it’s your duty?”
She’s crying now, silent, hot tears carving down her cheeks.
I know I should stop. I know. But I can’t.
“He was bragging about it,” I say, and both my heart and voice break somewhere deep. “ His tone...That damn smirk!”
Her hands go to her face, like she can scrub the memory off her skin. Like she can disappear into herself. She looks around the room like it’s shrinking, like I’ve turned it into a cage.
“I was a fucking child!” she screams.
“Exactly!” My voice cracks through the air. “And I killed him. Because it was the only way to make sure he never touched you again.”
She spins toward the door, grabs the knob. Tries to open it.
It doesn’t budge.
She yells, “Open it!”—her voice jagged with panic. With grief. But I don’t move. My body is frozen in place, heart thundering like it’s trying to get out.
“I won't,” I say, softer now, more hollow than angry. “You wanted the truth. So why are you running from it?”
She slams her hand on the door, shoulders shaking. Her back to me.
“I didn’t want this,” she says, voice raw. “Not like this.”
My footsteps are cautious as I approach her. Like getting too close might shatter us both.
“You think I wanted to go there?” I whisper. “I’ve spent every goddamn day trying not to. Trying to give you peace. To carry the weight for you. But I can’t keep pretending I’m the only one here who’s been through hell.”
She turns, slowly, painfully, like it takes every ounce of strength left in her. Her face...God, her beautiful face—ruined with tears and rage and something deeper. Something lost.
“You think I haven’t tried?” she chokes out. “You think I haven’t wanted to scream it from the rooftops just to stop it echoing in my fucking head?”
My heart twists. She’s unraveling right in front of me.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says, and her voice is so small now, I have to strain to hear it. “Because I thought maybe... if I buried it deep enough, it would die.”
I reach for her, hand trembling, but she backs up.
We stand there, nothing but the sound of both our hearts pounding in a too-still room.
The walls feel tighter. The air heavy.
Like trauma’s taken form and pressed itself into the silence.
“I locked that door because I was scared,” I admit. My voice softens with resignation, like an old wound bleeding again. “I’m not the only one who needs to be honest here. I’m not the only one with buried trauma I refuse to let the world see.”
I take a breath. It hurts. But I say it anyway.
“ Sadly, flower, there’s no way for me to dig through my pain without combing through yours.”
She looks up at me, tired. Hollow. I take a step closer. She doesn’t stop me this time.
Her hands fall to her sides, lifeless.
She leans back against the door like the air's been knocked out of her lungs, like maybe if she presses hard enough, she’ll disappear into it. Then she slides down, slow and trembling, until she’s nothing but a crumpled mess on the floor. Her knees pulled in, arms wrapped tight around herself.
Her sobs are broken glass. Fragile. Dangerous. Shards of the little girl she buried and the woman she’s trying to become.
My heart shatters all over again.
I sink down beside her, don’t say a word at first. I just reach for her, gather her into my arms like maybe I can piece her back together, I feel her trembling bleed into me.
“Oh, flower…” I whisper, my voice thick with grief I don't know how to name. “I’m sorry.” The words aren’t enough. Nothing ever is.
I feel her pain like it’s my own. She doesn’t speak for a moment, but then she lifts her head, voice hoarse, barely there. “I’m gonna be sick.”
I nod and let her go.
She pushes away from me and stumbles toward the washroom, one hand over her mouth. The door bangs open, and I hear the retching almost immediately.
Her pain is the only language I’ve ever been fluent in. And right now, it’s drowning us both.