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“I’m scared,” I whisper. My voice trembles, and I hate how small I sound. “I think… if I call him and he tells me it’s really over, then it’s real. And I can’t… I can’t face that. So I choose silence.”

Thalia slides off the couch and kneels in front of me, her voice dropping to a whisper too.

“And what if it’s not over?” Her hand finds mine, squeezing reassuringly. “What if he’s waiting for you to show up? To fight for him the way he fought for you?”

I can’t stop the tears this time. They fall silently, one after another, as I stare down at my hands. Still wearing the rings. Still holding onto something that might already be gone.

“You don’t get answers sitting here in the dark wearing a hoodie that hasn’t smelled like him in months. Get up. Get dressed. We’re starting with today.”

I stare at her for a long moment. My fingers still curled around the hem of the hoodie, like if I hold tight enough, maybe I can pretend it still carries his warmth.

And then—I stand.

My legs feel like they’re waking up after hibernation, shaky and stiff, but they hold me. That, in itself, feels like a small victory.

Thalia drags me—drags me, almost literally—to my family’s Sunday lunch at the Hardys’ house.

Of course everyone’s here.

And of course, the moment we step through the doorway, the entire room goes still. Like someone hit mute. Forks freeze halfway to mouths. Eyes snap to me like I’m a ghost who just wandered in from another lifetime.

“Wow,” Zayn finally says, breaking the silence. “Looks like someone decided to make a move.”

I narrow my eyes. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours. Always.” He shrugs. “Except maybe this time.”

There’s something in his voice—almost pity? Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Lately, everything feels like it cuts deeper. Like everyone’s gaze sees straight through the armor I no longer wear.

Before I can say anything else, Noah walks over and pulls me into a hug. His arms wrap around me tightly, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed until just now. And suddenly, the lump in my throat swells.

“So what is this?” he asks gently. “You finally ready to win your husband back? Or is this just a fresh air kind of thing?

“Can we not talk about it?” I murmur, sinking into him. I let my weight into his hold—like maybe, if I give up a little, he’ll carry some of what I can’t anymore. “I don’t know what I want. Or if I even want to do anything. I left the house only because Thalia made it impossible not to. That’s it.”

He rubs my back once, briefly, before stepping aside to let me go to my seat at the table.

No one says anything else.

Not yet.

But I can feel the tension in the air. The glances. The unspoken questions floating above our heads like smoke. Heavy and silent.

I’ve dropped a bomb just by walking through the door.

We eat. We play a few games—ones that require way too much energy, mentally and physically—but I try. I sit here and I try, even when I feel like I’m made of glass and every laugh, every touch, might crack me open.

Three hours later, we’re all still gathered around the table, sipping warm tea, talking about what everyone’s been up to lately. Well—they are.

My life?

We all know.

The silence that follows a round of light laughter stretches a little too long. My fingers tighten around the mug, and just when I think I might be in the clear, I hear my mother’s voice.

“Sierra,” she starts, and something in her tone makes me sit up straighter, bracing for the blow, “I didn’t raise a coward. And I don't do tiptoeing around things—not with anyone at this table.”

Her voice is calm, steady. But her words land like knives.