Page 154 of Break Me

Nothing I can get my hands on and make right again.

There’s just this.

Her, sitting beside me.

Breathing slowly. Too slow or maybe not. I don’t know anymore. That’s the worst part. Not knowing what’s normal. Not knowing when something crosses the line from fine into something else.

I’ve spent so many long nights going down rabbit holes I didn’t know existed, reading through medical journals, forums, and case studies with words I didn’t understand. Anything I could find that might give me something solid to hold onto. Some kind of pattern or timeline that would make this make sense in a way I could work with.

None of it gave me anything I can use. None of it told me when this moment would become something worse. And none of it told me how to stop it.

The doctor in California reached out two days ago. I haven’t said that part out loud. He walked me through everything in that careful, measured tone that sounds like hope until you listen close enough to hear what’s missing from it. The pauses that are a little too long, the words chosen too deliberately, like he was building toward something he already knew I wasn’t going to want to hear.

I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan. The rest of it follows whether I want it to or not. There’s nothing more I can do for your wife.

I don’t know why, but I thanked him anyway.

I haven’t told Raven. Because saying it out loud would make it too real. And I’m not ready for real. So, I keep it to myself.

Instead, I focus on what I can control. Keeping my arm steady as I hold the woman who’s my entire world against me. And I tell myself that it’s enough.

That as long as she’s still leaning into me, as long as I can feel her breathing, as long as I can keep her here beside me⁠—

I haven’t lost anything yet.

Raven

I’ve always loved the sound of water.

Not the loud kind, not the kind that drowns everything else out, but this, the steady, quiet movement of it. The way it slips over stone without asking anything from the world around it, and the way it fills the silence without breaking it, like it understands something about peace the rest of us are still trying to learn.

It’s cooler down here than it is anywhere else. The air drifts through the trees with a quiet bite that lingers against my skin. I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands, tucking my fingers into the soft knit as I breathe it in slowly, letting it anchor me in a way that feels almost necessary now.

Sam sits beside me on the flat stretch of rock near the edge of the water, close enough that our shoulders touch. His presence is solid and familiar, steady in a way that’s always made the world feel more manageable, like whatever exists beyond this moment can wait.

For a while, we don’t say anything.

The creek runs steady beside us, the water slipping over stone, catching the light where the surface breaks and reforms, and carrying leaves and small fragments of the world along with it as though none of it matters enough to hold onto.

I watch it long enough that the sound starts to feel like something that could carry me the same way it carries everything else, like it’s smoothing out the edges I didn’t realize had started to fray.

There’s a peace here I don’t find anywhere else.

I draw in another slow breath, deeper this time, and let it out just as carefully.

The light gradually shifts through the trees, the gold softening into something cooler, the shadows stretching longer across the rocks beneath us. I become aware of the weight of my body in a way I wasn’t when we first sat down. Fatigue settles into my limbs. I lean into Sam a little more without thinking, letting my shoulder rest more fully against him.

“Do you ever think about after?” I ask, my voice soft.

Sam goes still beside me. “What do you mean?” he asks after a second, his voice steady in a way that tells me he already knows this isn’t a simple question.

I keep my eyes on the water. It’s easier that way. “I don’t know,” I say, even though I do. “Just after.”

The word hangs between us. I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself before I push a little further.

“When things change,” I say, choosing each word carefully, “when it gets harder…” My voice fades before I find the courage to continue. “What happens then?” I ask quietly.

“I’ll be right here,” he says.