Miras glances at me. "You sure?"
I take a slow breath and nod.
He steps over to open the door, and there she is—Aunt Nayley.
She looks the same as she did in my dreamlike coma-state, but somehow more real now, like my mind hadn't fully captured her warmth before. Her long, dark braids are swept back into a simple knot, and her eyes—so much like Miras'—are filled with emotion the second she sees me.
"Oh, Cherish…" she breathes, stepping forward, hesitation flickering across her face as if she's not sure if she can hug me.
I beat her to it.
It's a little shaky, and my arms don't have the same strength they used to, but I still reach for her, and the second I do, she's pulling me close, warm and solid and safe.
For a moment, she doesn't say anything. Neither do I. We just hold on.
When she finally leans back, her hands remain on my shoulders, eyes scanning my face with that same careful intensity Miras always has.
"You scared me," she murmurs. "You scared all of us."
I swallow past the lump in my throat. "I scared myself."
Her lips press together, her fingers giving the lightest squeeze. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I just—I needed to see you with my own eyes."
I nod, glancing briefly at Miras. He's standing just behind her, arms crossed, watching me carefully.
"I appreciate you coming," I say softly.
She smiles, though there's sadness in it. "Of course I came." Then, after a pause, she adds, "I would've come sooner, but I didn't know if you'd want me here."
The words settle between us, and I know what she's really saying.
She thought I might blame her. For what happened. For what Miras did to get me out of the Cube.
I shake my head. "You were there for Miras when he needed you," I say, my voice quiet but firm. "That's enough."
Her expression wavers, something like relief breaking through the worry.
"I meant what I said," she tells me. "Back when you were still unconscious. That Miras wouldn't blame you if this was too much."
I hesitate. My gaze flickers to Miras again. His jaw is tight, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something raw.
I turn back to Aunt Nayley. "It's too much," I admit. "But I'm still here."
Her eyes shine with something unreadable, but she nods. "Good," she whispers.
Miras pulls up the chair he usually sits in, allowing a spot for aunt Nayley to sit. She takes it, giving him a quick thank you as she sits down.
"I've heard you have had a couple scares since you woke up."
I nod slowly, my fingers tightening in the blanket draped over my lap. "That's one way to put it."
Aunt Nayley studies me, her expression soft but knowing. "Miras told me about your heart."
I glance at Miras, who looks torn between guilt and concern, like he wasn't sure if he should've shared that part of my struggles. But I'm not mad at him. I sigh, shifting against the pillows. "It's… new," I admit. "Unsettling. I don't know if it's ever going to stop feeling like my body doesn't belong to me anymore."
Aunt Nayley reaches forward, resting a gentle hand over mine. "You've been through hell, sweetheart. It's going to take time. More time than anyone wants to admit."
I don't respond right away. What am I supposed to say? That I don't know if I even want to give myself that time? That every time my heart races too fast or my lungs seize up, I feel like I'm back in that godforsaken room with Dr. Amar, waiting for the next wave of pain?
Miras shifts beside me, his hand twitching like he wants to reach for me but doesn't know if he should. Instead, he settles for saying, "She almost died last night." His voice is tight, edged with something dangerously close to anger.
Aunt Nayley exhales slowly, looking between the two of us. "I know you're scared," she says to him gently. "And I know you, Miras. You want to fix this, to make it better for her. But this isn't something you can fight your way through."
Miras looks away, his jaw clenching. "I just—I don't know how to help."
His words make my heart ache. I reach for his hand, squeezing it lightly. "You already are."
He looks at me, searching my face for something, and whatever he finds there makes his shoulders drop just a little.
Aunt Nayley gives us a moment before breaking the silence. "Would you let me do your hair?"
I blink at her, caught off guard. "My hair?"
She nods, a small smile playing at her lips. "It'll keep it out of the way. And maybe it'll make you feel a little more like yourself."
I hesitate. The idea of someone touching me, even in such a simple way, makes something inside me twist. But Aunt Nayley's expression is open, patient. She won't push.
It's not that I don't want her too. But my hair is an absolute mess, more so than it usually is. It's matted, dirty, probably dried blood in there somewhere. Even on a good hair day, I don't usually let people touch my hair.
"I used to be a hairdresser," aunt Nayley says, catching onto my hesitancy. "Back when Miras was just a baby. I've worked on all hair types, done all kinds of different styles. Whatever you want, I can do it. And I promise to be gentle."
"…Okay."
Miras picks me up and lifts me to the chair while aunt Nayley is already yelling for Imani to bring her a spray bottle with detangler and a comb. Miras and I exchange a glance, trying not to chuckle too loudly as Imani rushes around.
Eventually, one of the maids brings aunt Nayley a box of hairstyling tools.
"Finally," aunt Nayley says loud enough for Imani to hear. "Someone who knows what a comb is."
"A brush does the exact same thing!"
Aunt Nayley rolls her eyes like Imani just said something moronic. She places my hair into three large sections, starting from the bottom of my curls and working her way up.
"You have beautiful hair," she murmurs. "I can see why Miras kept running his hands through it when you were asleep."
I feel Miras go still beside me, and my cheeks burn. "He what?"
Aunt Nayley chuckles. "Oh, don't let him fool you. He'd sit by your bedside, smoothing your hair out of your face like it was the only thing keeping him sane."
Miras groans, rubbing a hand down his face. "Aunt Nayley—"
"What?" she teases. "I think it's sweet."
I bite my lip, something tender and aching curling in my chest. I tilt my head slightly, catching Miras' gaze. He looks embarrassed, but there's no real frustration there—just a quiet kind of vulnerability he's not used to showing.
I reach out, lacing my fingers with his. He looks down at our joined hands, then back up at me, and after a beat, he squeezes gently.
It takes aunt Nayley awhile for her to work her way through all the knotts, but she does; slowly and gently without complaining. She'd switch back and forth between humming a melody and talking about random things that happened recently.
Boring things.
Normal things.
"How do you feel about two dutch braids?" She runs her fingers through my hair, making sure she doesn't miss any knots.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders. "That sounds nice."
Aunt Nayley hums approvingly, parting my hair with careful fingers. "Good. It'll keep everything neat, and you won't have to worry about it tangling up again too soon."
I nod absently, letting my eyes drift half-closed. Miras hasn't moved from his chair. He's watching quietly, his hands loosely clasped in front of him, like he's still bracing for something to go wrong.
Aunt Nayley starts weaving the first braid, her fingers moving with practiced ease. "You know," she says conversationally, "Miras used to hate sitting still when I did his hair as a kid. He'd fidget the whole time. I practically had to bribe him to let me finish."
I let out a small, breathy chuckle, my lips curving. "That doesn't surprise me."
Miras groans, dropping his head back against the chair. "You're really going to bring that up right now?"
"Of course I am," she replies, the amusement clear in her voice. "I have to embarrass you at least a little. It's my right as your aunt."
I glance at him, catching the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips despite himself. He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue.
Just for a moment, I'm not the broken, recovering girl trapped in this bed.
By the time she knots off the first braid and starts on the second, I realize how much better I feel—lighter, steadier. I hadn't noticed how much the weight of my tangled hair had been bothering me until now.
Aunt Nayley gently tightens the second braid, then gives my shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze. "There," she murmurs. "All done."
I reach up, running my fingers along the smooth, neat pattern. The familiarity of it—of being taken care of so gently, without expectation—settles something deep in my chest.
"Thank you," I whisper.
She smiles, pressing a quick kiss to the top of my head before pulling away. "Anytime, sweetheart."
I glance at Miras again. He's staring at me, his expression softer than before, like he's seeing something in me that I can't quite see myself.
"You look like you feel better," he says quietly.
I nod. "I do."
And for the first time since waking up, I actually mean it.
Dinner feels like a step toward normalcy—or at least, that's what I tell myself when I ask if we can have it outside my hospital room. I'm tired of staring at the same four walls, tired of being treated like I might shatter at any second.
Miras hesitates at first, glancing at me like he's expecting me to take back the request, but Aunt Nayley is already nodding. "If she wants to eat somewhere else, then let's do it."
Miras sighs, running a hand through his hair before finally giving in. "Fine. But if you start feeling off, we're coming right back."
I don't argue. I'm already pushing enough for one day.
Aunt Nayley sits next to me at the table, her presence a steady, calming thing, while Miras takes the seat across from me, his watchful gaze flickering to me every few minutes.
Dinner is simple—just soup and a small plate of rice—but after the past few days, it feels heavier than I expected. I take small bites, chewing carefully, determined to get through the meal without issue.
Even though they're trying to hide it, I can feel everyone staring at me. The only thing I can hear other than the sound of the quiet elevator music my father put on as background noise is the sound of my own chewing.
"Can you guys please talk—or something."
A forced murmur spreads around the table, as they somehow try to talk about everything at once but nothing at all. I accept it. At the very least their attention is somewhat on each other and not completely on me.
It's subtle at first, just a small discomfort that I try to ignore, but it builds too fast. My hands tighten around the spoon. The room tilts slightly, and my breath catches in my throat as nausea rises sharp and sudden.
No. No, not here. Not now.
I force myself to swallow, but the moment I do, I know it's a mistake. My body rejects it almost instantly, my stomach lurching violently. Knowing I only have a split second, I turn and try to aim for somewhere that isn't going to splatter on aunt Nayley or Imani.
Miras is already moving. "Cherish?"
I don't answer. I can't. My throat tightens, my vision blurring at the edges. My hands tremble as I brace against the back of the chair, trying to will the sensation away, trying to shove down the mortification clawing at my chest.
But it's no use. The nausea wins.
I barely manage to turn my head away from the people sitting next to me before I'm retching, my body convulsing as my stomach empties itself. Humiliation burns through me hotter than the sickness itself.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. I don't want to turn around. I don't want to see the looks on their faces, don't want to see the concern or the pity.
But I feel him. Miras.
He's there before I can stop him, his hands firm and steady as he gathers my hair, his touch careful as he rubs a slow, grounding circle on my back. "You're okay," he murmurs, voice low and soothing. "Just breathe."
I shake my head, my throat tight. "I—" My voice cracks. "I'm sorry."
Miras lets out a quiet, almost incredulous scoff. "Don't apologize for this."
But I can't help it. The embarrassment is overwhelming, sitting like a weight on my chest.
Aunt Nayley steps closer, her voice gentle but firm. "Let's get you back to your room, sweetheart. You need to rest."
I don't argue this time. I just nod, swallowing against the lingering nausea as Miras keeps a steadying hand on me, guiding me back into my wheelchair. I wanted this dinner to feel normal.
But now, all I feel is small.
Back in my room, I barely have time to sit down before Imani delivers the news.
"You need an NG tube."
I freeze.
Miras, who's been at my side the whole time, tenses immediately. "What?" His voice is sharp, wary, like he already doesn't like where this is going.
Imani sighs, crossing his arms. "Cherish, your body isn't getting enough nutrients. You're already struggling to keep food down, and if this keeps up, your condition is only going to get worse. You need the extra support until your system can handle solid food again."
The words sink in too fast, too heavy. My stomach twists—not with nausea this time, but something colder.
"No," I say immediately. "No way."
"Cherish—"
"I said no," I snap, my voice raw with frustration, with fear. The thought of something being forced down my nose, the constant discomfort, the lack of control—it's too much. It makes my chest tighten, my pulse spikes. "I can eat."
"You just proved you can't," Imani says, not unkindly but firm. "You tried. And I know you hate this, but we have to do what's best for you."
My fingers curl into the blanket in my lap, my breath unsteady. "There has to be another way. A different kind of supplement, or—"
"There isn't," Imani interrupts, softer this time. "This isn't a punishment, Cherish. It's just what you need right now. Temporary support. Once you can keep food down consistently, we'll take it out."
I shake my head, swallowing against the rising panic. "I don't want it."
Miras, silent until now, suddenly steps forward. His jaw is clenched, his arms crossed, and there's something protective in his stance. "If she doesn't want it, you're not forcing it."
Imani exhales sharply, clearly frustrated but keeping himself composed. "Miras, I get that you want to protect her, but this isn't optional. If she doesn't get proper nutrition, she won't heal. If this keeps up, her organs are going to start shutting down. You want to talk about what's cruel? Letting her suffer because you're afraid of upsetting her."
Miras' expression darkens. "Don't twist this."
"I'm not," Imani shoots back. "I'm telling you the reality of the situation."
I barely hear them. My pulse is too loud in my ears, my breathing uneven. It's not just the idea of the tube itself—it's the control, the lack of choice.
I can't do this again.
I can't handle something being done to my body without my consent.
"Cherish," Imani says, drawing my attention back. His voice is steady, but I can tell he's being careful now, trying not to push too hard. "I need you to work with me on this. Please."
My throat feels tight. My body already isn't my own. I've spent too long being poked, prodded, wired to machines, barely hanging on. And now they want to take away one of the only things I still have left—what little control I do have over myself.
But what choice do I really have?
I'm sitting on the bed, my fingers curled into the sheets, my whole body locked tight with tension. Miras is beside me, his hand covering mine, his grip firm but not too tight. Aunt Nayley stands just behind him, and Dad is on my other side, his face tight with something like guilt. I know he hates this, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to fight Imani the way Miras had.
Because they all know I need this.
That doesn't make it any easier.
Imani is in front of me, mask pulled over his face, gloves snapped into place. His expression is unreadable, but I know him well enough to catch the hesitation, the small flicker of doubt before he schools his features. He doesn't want to do this. But he will.
"Alright," he says, voice steady. "You're going to want to tilt your head back at first. That'll help me guide the tube down."
I don't move.
Miras squeezes my hand. "Cherish." His voice is soft, urging, but I can hear the tightness in it. "Just take deep breaths, okay?"
I take a breath. It doesn't help.
Imani waits, patient but unyielding.
Finally, I force myself to nod, just a little, and tip my head back.
I feel the moment he starts. The tube touches the inside of my nose, and I flinch immediately. It burns. A sharp, stinging discomfort that makes me want to pull away.
"It's okay," Imani says, guiding it slowly, carefully. "I know it's not comfortable, but you're doing fine."
I don't feel fine. I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like I'm back in the Cube, restrained, things forced into my body while I was too weak to fight. My breath stutters, my vision blurring at the edges.
Then it slides deeper. The pressure moves from my nose down the back of my throat, and the moment it hits, my body revolts.
I gag, jerking back instinctively, my hand flying up to rip it out.
Miras is faster. His fingers wrap around mine, pulling my hand away. "I know," he says, and there's something frantic in his voice now. "I know it's awful, but you have to let him do this."
I shake my head, my throat convulsing around the foreign intrusion. My eyes water, my chest heaving. "Stop," I rasp, barely able to get the word out. "Please—stop."
Imani's hands don't falter. His voice is calm, but I can hear the strain in it. "I can't stop, Cherish. We're almost there."
I choke again, my whole body trembling
"Cherish, listen to me. Breathe through your mouth. Small sips of air, okay?"
I try, but it doesn't feel like I'm getting any air at all. My body keeps trying to reject the tube, keeps trying to push it back up. My nails dig into Miras' wrist, my other hand clawing at the blankets.
"Almost done," Imani promises.
I shake my head again, tears slipping down my cheeks. The panic is overtaking everything, drowning out the room, drowning out their voices. I can't do this. I can't do this.
Then I feel another hand—Aunt Nayley's. She places it gently against my back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. "You're stronger than this, sweetheart," she murmurs. "You've already survived worse."
I let out a sob. Because she's right, and I hate that she's right.
My dad steps closer, his voice thick with emotion. "It's almost over, Cherish. Just a little longer."
Imani hums in agreement, his voice focused but softer now. "Okay. Swallow for me."
I barely hear him. But Miras must see my hesitation because he says, "Just one swallow, Cherish. I've got you."
It takes everything in me, but I do it. I force my throat to work around the tube, the sensation unbearable.
Imani doesn't waste a second. "Got it," he says. "It's in."
My whole body sags in relief, but it's short-lived. I can still feel it, still feel the unnatural pressure down my throat, still feel like I'm choking even though I know I'm not.
Miras doesn't let go of me, his thumbs swiping away the tears on my cheeks. "It's over," he whispers. "It's over."
I don't believe him. Because it doesn't feel over.
It feels like something else has been taken from me.
It starts with a shudder.
A deep, violent tremor that works its way through my body before I can even process it. My breath catches, and then my chest tightens—so fast, so hard, I feel like I've been plunged into ice water.
The tube is still there. I can feel it in my throat, unnatural, wrong. I can't swallow around it, can't ignore it, can't breathe without feeling like it's coiling inside me, invading me.
It's too much.
My hands move before I can think. My fingers latch onto the tape holding the tube in place, the only thing standing between me and the feeling of freedom—of release.
I can't swallow around it. I can't breathe. It's wrong, it's suffocating, and I don't care that they told me to leave it in. I need it out.
The moment I feel the slightest shift in the tube, I don't think—I just react. My hands fly to the tape holding it in place, desperate, frantic. The burning sensation in my throat is unbearable, and my fingers tear at the adhesive, the sensation of the tube lodged there suffocating me from the inside.
Miras' voice cuts through the panic, sharp and urgent. "Cherish, stop—please—" But it's too late.
I yank the tube free from my nose, feeling the instant relief of it sliding out, only for the relief to turn into a flood of terror. I gasp, finally able to breathe without the weight in my throat, but the damage has been done. Imani doesn't hesitate. His eyes widen, and before I can even process what's happening, he steps toward me.
"Cherish, you need to let me fix this," he says, voice clipped, his hands already moving toward me. "We can't leave it out. Your body isn't getting what it needs."
I can barely hear him over the roar of panic in my chest, the relief quickly turning to horror. "No, I can't. Please... I can't... again..."
My hands shake, and I try to move back, to hide from what's coming next, but I can't escape it. Miras steps forward, his hands on my shoulders, trying to steady me. "Cherish," he says, his voice soft but firm, "you're not alone in this. We'll get through it together. Just breathe with me."
But the air is too thin, my throat too tight. I don't want this. I don't want anything to do with it. I want to tear everything away, to make it stop, to have my body be mine again. I feel the heat of tears in my eyes, burning as they spill down my cheeks.
Imani doesn't wait for me to change my mind. He takes the tube in his hands, his expression focused, professional—but I see the brief flicker of hesitation, the unease that tells me this is just as hard for him as it is for me. "I'm sorry, Cherish," he says, but his hands are already lifting my chin, guiding me back.
I can't look at him. I can't look at anyone. The thought of the tube going back in, of it sliding down my throat again, feels like I'm being suffocated all over again, dragged back into the depths of the Cube. I feel the cold panic rush through me, everything narrowing to the tube and the overwhelming sensation of losing control.
"Please," I whisper, my voice barely audible, "I can't..."
But Imani doesn't stop. He gently tilts my head back, guiding me into position. I feel his fingers on my skin, and then the tube is at my nose again. I flinch before it even touches me, the memory of the pain flooding back. The room tilts, and for a moment, I think I might fall.
I want to pull away, but I can't. Miras is holding me steady, his hands firm around mine, his voice soft in my ear. "You're okay. You're okay. Breathe with me."
I try. I try so hard to focus on him, on his voice, but all I can feel is the cold, invasive pressure of the tube, the stinging discomfort as it touches my nose. My breath catches. I want to scream. I want to fight. I want to run.
But I can't.
The tube slides in, and the burning sensation hits immediately, like fire against the delicate lining of my throat. I choke, my body jerking forward instinctively. My hands fly up again, but Miras is there, gripping my wrists, pulling them away, keeping me in place. I gag, the pressure unbearable, and I feel the tears rushing down my face again, more than before.
"No, no, no..." I can barely get the words out, the tube feels like it's choking me. "Please, I can't... I can't—"
Imani's voice is gentle but unwavering. "Just one more breath, Cherish. Just one more. You're almost done."
But I can't hear him anymore. The panic is a wave crashing over me, drowning out everything. The fear—of losing control, of being trapped again, of having my body invaded without my consent—it's too much. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can only feel the tube, feel it sliding further down, feel the suffocating pressure deep in my throat.
But the feeling of being out of control—the feeling of the tube pushing deeper into my throat—makes my body tremble violently. I can't catch my breath. My chest feels like it's being crushed under the weight of the world. The space around me feels small, too small to contain all the panic and fear swirling inside me.
"Almost done," Imani murmurs, but his voice is distant, as if I'm hearing it underwater.
I try to breathe, I try so hard, but it's like I'm suffocating all over again. The tube feels like it's lodged in my lungs, the sensation of it pushing against everything inside me too much to bear.
"I can't... I can't..." I sob, my body shaking with the force of my cries. "Please... no more... please."
But it doesn't stop. The tube is still there. The feeling of it in my throat, pressing down, filling the space where my control used to be, won't go away. And I feel it—every inch of it—deep inside me.
My hands clutch at Miras, gripping him as if he's the only thing keeping me from slipping into the suffocating darkness.
The room feels too loud, the voices too far away, and the only thing I know is the feeling of the tube, the feeling of being broken all over again.
I can't focus on anything except the suffocating pressure in my chest and the constant, sharp sting of the tube lodged down my throat. The air is thick, almost suffocating, and it feels like it's pressing against my ribs, forcing them to crack. I can't get enough of it—every breath is shallow, too shallow, and no matter how much I try to force air into my lungs, it's never enough.
"Cherish," Miras whispers, his voice trembling, but it barely breaks through the roaring panic inside me. "You've got this. Breathe with me. In and out. Please. I'm here. I'm right here."
But his words don't reach me. It feels like there's a wall between us now, a barrier built by my own terror. Every breath is a battle. Every movement of the tube in my throat is another wave of panic. I'm trembling so hard I can barely hold on, my hands gripping his with all the strength I have left.
Imani's voice is softer this time, more patient. "Cherish, we need you to stay calm. You're fighting it, and that's making it worse. Please, trust me. Just breathe, slowly. I know this is hard. I'm here with you."
I can't trust him. Not with this. Not with my body, not with this feeling of complete and utter helplessness. My fingers claw at Miras' arms, my nails digging into his skin as I fight for control. My chest burns with the effort to hold onto something, anything—some scrap of power in this nightmare.
"No, no, no, I can't... I can't..." The words fall from my lips in a broken sob, each one barely more than a gasp.
But the tube is still there. The burning, stinging feeling still lingers deep in my throat, like it's tearing through me with every attempt to breathe. I want to scream, to beg them to stop, to make it go away. But I can't. My voice is lost in the panic, swallowed by the sensation of my chest locking up with each breath.
Miras doesn't let go of me. He doesn't loosen his grip. His hands, strong but gentle, keep me tethered to reality, to him, even as everything else seems to fade away. "Cherish, listen to me. You're not alone. You're not broken. We'll get through this, okay? You're stronger than this."
I want to believe him. I want to believe that this will end, that I'll be okay. But every part of me is screaming that it won't—that this is just the beginning of something worse. The thought of having the tube pulled out, only for it to be put back in again, feels like it's breaking me all over again. This isn't healing. This isn't helping. It's another reminder of just how far I've fallen from the person I used to be. How powerless I am.
Tears blur my vision, but they won't stop. I can feel them streaking down my face, mixing with the sweat that's dampening my skin. My breath hitches again, too fast, too shallow. I'm on the edge of losing myself.
Imani's voice comes again, steady and professional, but even I can hear the faint crack of his concern. "You need to calm down, Cherish. This will only take a few more minutes. I know it's hard, but we're almost there. You've already done the hardest part."
His words should bring comfort, but all I hear is a lie. The hardest part? I've been through worse, yes, but this—this feels like something else. It feels like I'm losing more than I've ever lost before. It feels like something is being taken from me, piece by piece, every time they force me into another corner, into another choice that's not my own.
"Breathe, Cherish," Miras says again, his tone now more desperate. "Please. You're fighting so hard. Just breathe with me. One deep breath. In, out. I'm not letting go of you."
It doesn't make sense, but somehow, hearing him say that—hearing him promise he won't let go—gives me something to cling to. His presence, the warmth of his hands wrapped around mine, becomes the only thing that feels real anymore.
So I try. I try to breathe with him. In, out. Slowly, carefully, trying to ignore the tightness, the suffocating pressure, the way my body still wants to rebel against the tube lodged in my throat.
But it doesn't work. The tears keep coming, and with them, the feeling of helplessness doesn't fade. It only grows, consuming me from the inside out. I'm not okay. I'm not going to be okay.
The seconds stretch into eternity as I try to force myself to breathe, to steady my heartbeat. But the tighter the tube feels in my throat, the faster my pulse races, and I feel like I'm drowning in it all over again.
"Just one more breath, Cherish," Imani urges. "And we're done. Just one more breath."
I try again. Just one more. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can hold on. But it feels like a lie, like a cruel joke.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
Miras is still there, holding me together, his voice a lifeline in the storm of emotions threatening to break me apart. "I've got you," he whispers. "I've got you. We'll get through this. Together."
I cling to his words like a desperate plea, trying to believe them, trying to believe in him, in us. But I don't know if I can. I don't know if I can survive this—again.
Imani's hands finally still. The tube is in place. It's done.
I can feel the faintest relief, but it's tainted with something much darker—the heavy pressure of the tube lodged in my throat, still there, suffocating, controlling. My chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, trying to adjust, but it feels like I'm drowning in my own body.
But then, something else makes me freeze.
I glance down at Miras' hands, still holding mine, still firm around my trembling fingers. He's gently stroking my palms now, a quiet reassurance, but something's wrong. His sleeve is rolled up just enough for me to see the small trickle of blood staining the fabric.
My breath catches, and panic floods through me again, colder this time. My nails. They dug into him too hard. I can feel the sharp sting of guilt pierce deeper than anything the tube could do. I hurt him. I hurt him.
"Miras..." My voice cracks as I look at him, eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry... I didn't mean—"
Miras immediately shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but it's not enough to hide the pain in his eyes. "It's fine, Cherish," he says softly, his voice steady despite the fresh cut on his skin. "Really, it's nothing. I'm fine."
But I can't focus on anything else but the blood. The deep line of red trailing from his wrist, staining his sleeve. My heart feels like it's shattering under the weight of it. I hurt him. I caused this. I wasn't in control. I didn't have control.
I can't stop the flood of shame. My throat tightens around the tube again, not from the physical discomfort this time, but the ache of realizing that I can't even hold on without breaking something, without hurting someone. Someone who's trying so hard to be there for me, to hold me together when I feel like I'm falling apart.
"I didn't mean to," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"No," he interrupts quickly, but it's not enough. The blood is still there. The proof of how I hurt him is right in front of me, and I can't stop it from spiraling.
I try to reach out, but my vision is blurring, my hands too unsteady to touch him. I can't look at him. I can't look at that blood. "Please," I beg, my voice trembling with terror. "Please tell me you're okay. Please, Miras, please don't be hurt—"
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's going to break out of my chest. Every breath feels too tight, too shallow, as if the air itself is too thick to swallow. My body is seizing in on itself, constricting, and I can't stop the trembling, the panic that's growing, swelling until it threatens to crush me entirely.
"Cherish, hey, look at me," Miras says urgently, his hand on my face, trying to steady me, but I'm already too far gone. My breaths are coming in short, gasping bursts now, desperate, frantic. "I'm fine. It's just a scratch, okay? Just a small cut. Nothing to worry about."
His words should be comforting, but they only make the fear worse, the guilt worse. I don't hear him anymore. All I hear is the sound of my own heart hammering in my ears, the thick, choking sensation in my throat. My vision is narrowing. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
"Miras!" I gasp, the panic too sharp now to ignore. "I—can't—breathe—please—"
Imani's voice cuts through the haze of my panic, sharp but gentle. "Cherish, focus on me. Look at me. We're going to breathe together, okay? In and out, slowly. You can do this."
I try to follow his instructions, but my body doesn't listen. My hands are trembling violently now, my nails biting into my palms as I clutch at my chest, trying to steady myself. The room is spinning faster than I can process, the air thick and oppressive, and all I can focus on is the blood—Miras' blood, my fault.
The pressure of my nails digging into my palms intensifies, each desperate scrape against my skin a silent scream for release, a frantic attempt to hold onto something—anything—when everything else feels like it's slipping away. But even through the storm of panic, I can feel the sharpness in my grip, the pain coursing through my hands with each tightened fist. I'm losing control, and it feels like there's nothing left to stop it.
Miras is right there, his hands warm but firm as he tries to pull my fingers apart, his voice calm but edged with fear.
"Cherish, stop. You're hurting yourself." His tone is urgent, but there's something else there—something raw, a fear of what I might do to myself without even realizing it.
But I can't stop. The sensation of my nails, the pressure, is the only thing grounding me as the rest of the world falls away. I can't stop. I can't breathe without feeling like I'm suffocating, and it's all slipping through my fingers.
Miras grips my wrists, trying to pry my hands apart, but even though my right hand is damaged, even though I can't fully close my fist anymore, the pain in my fingers from the pressure still feels real, sharp—intense. I can feel the blood, the heat from where my nails are digging into the skin of my palm, and I can hear Miras calling my name, but it's distant, muffled by the panic and the storm in my chest.
"Cherish," Miras says again, more forcefully this time, his grip tightening as he tries to uncurl my fingers. "Please. You're hurting yourself."
I can feel him straining against me, pulling at my hand with a desperation that makes my heart ache, and yet it feels like my body's turning against him, refusing to let go. My nails are still buried deep in my palms, and no matter how hard he tries, my fingers stay locked in place.
"Please... let me—" He sounds pained, his voice thick with the effort of trying to get through to me, but I can't even hear him anymore, the world reduced to the overwhelming roar of my panic, my own breathing too fast, too ragged.
"I can't..." I choke out, my throat tight, my eyes squeezed shut. "I can't stop... I can't breathe..."
I feel him shift, repositioning himself to get better leverage. His hands slip down to my wrists, his touch firm, pulling harder now. "Cherish," he says, voice breaking slightly, but still steady, "let me help you. You're not alone. Please... you have to let go."
But my fingers don't release. They won't. They can't.
It's like my hands have a life of their own, the fear and the tension pulling at them, the panic squeezing around my chest in an iron grip that leaves no room for anything else.
"Please," Miras pleads again, his tone desperate now, but still gentle, still trying to reach me through the chaos. "You're hurting yourself. Let me help you. Let me take care of you."
But even with the damage in my hands, even though I know he's trying to protect me, I can't let go. His touch, the gentleness in his voice, they're not enough to cut through the suffocating wave of terror. The more he pulls, the more I resist. I feel like I'm going to shatter.
The sound of Miras' strained breath fills the air, a soft gasp of frustration before his voice softens again, trying a new approach. "Cherish... it's okay. Let me take care of you. I've got you."
His words break through, just enough for me to feel the smallest shift inside me. Slowly, hesitantly, I let go. My fingers loosen, my grip weakening, and Miras finally pries my hands apart, his relief palpable as he gently holds my wrists, holding me in place as my body trembles violently.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words barely audible through my own panicked breaths. My body is still shaking, my heart still hammering, and yet there's a weight lifted—just a little. He's still holding me. He's still here.
"I'm sorry..."
Miras doesn't say anything for a moment, just gently rubs my wrists, where I can still feel the pressure, the memory of what I did. "You're okay. You're okay," he says softly, but there's something more in his voice now—a quiet reassurance that I'm not sure I fully believe yet. "Cherish," Miras interrupts gently, his thumb tracing over my wrist, steadying me. "It's not your fault. I'm fine. It's just a scratch. You didn't hurt me, okay? I'm right here. Just breathe, sweetheart."
Imani stands up, his expression soft but purposeful as he glances at me one last time before moving toward the cabinet near the door. His voice is gentle but firm when he speaks. "I'm going to get something to clean the wounds. You both need to be taken care of."
I nod absently, but my mind is spinning, still trapped in the loop of guilt. The weight of what I did to Miras—what I almost did to myself—presses down harder with each passing second, suffocating me. I can still see the blood on his sleeve, the look in his eyes when I realized what I'd done, the way he kept trying to reassure me.
It's just a scratch. It's just a scratch...
But it feels so much more than that to me. The last thing I want is to hurt him. I don't want to be this. Weak. Out of control. A burden. Every time I lose control, I hurt someone, and that just makes everything worse. I should be the one protecting him, not the other way around. And I don't know how to live with that.
Miras shifts beside me, his hand still resting on my back, fingers softly rubbing small circles against the fabric of my shirt. He's close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, but there's a distance in his eyes. Not that I blame him. I've seen the flicker of concern in his gaze before, but this time—this time it's different. There's a sadness there, too. Like maybe he's afraid of what I'll do next, or what this might mean for me, for us.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," I whisper, so softly that it's almost lost in the stillness of the room. My voice trembles, raw from the panic, the terror that still hasn't fully faded.
"You didn't hurt me," Miras replies, but his voice is quieter now, softer, as if he's trying to soothe both of us. His hand moves from my back to my shoulder, his thumb gently brushing against the fabric of my shirt as he shifts slightly to face me. "It's okay. It was an accident. I'm fine. You're okay."
I shake my head, biting back the tears that are threatening to spill. "No, it wasn't. I almost hurt you. I could've—"
"You didn't," he interrupts, his voice firm now, even though I can hear the faint tremor underneath. "I told you, it's not your fault. We'll clean this up, and then you're going to take a deep breath, okay? You don't need to carry this guilt."
But I can't seem to let it go. The guilt eats at me, makes my chest feel heavy, suffocating, as if I'm carrying a weight I don't know how to put down.
I hear Imani returning to the room, the faint sound of the cabinet door closing behind him. He approaches quietly, not wanting to startle me, but I can feel his eyes on me as he moves to sit beside me. He places the medical supplies on the bed, his expression serious but calm.
To my surprise, aunt Nayley is rubbing my shoulder, trying to keep me steady, and the guilt in my chest hits harder. She's looking after me, after everything I've done.
Imani moves between us, gently starting with Miras' wound, cleaning the small cut on his arm with practiced hands, his voice soft but firm. "You've both been through a lot. And sometimes, in these moments, emotions take over. But that's what we're here for. To help you through it. To make sure you're okay, even when you can't see it for yourself."
I feel the sting of the antiseptic as it touches my own skin, the small scratch on my hand where I must have cut myself in the chaos, but it doesn't feel as sharp as the one in my chest. The wound on my hand is physical. It's easier to fix. But the one inside me... the one that's tearing at me, that's harder to mend.
The room feels heavy after Aunt Nayley and the others leave, the silence pressing down in the space where her comforting presence once was. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, the covers pulled halfway over my legs but not quite enough to settle me. I can't seem to move—can't seem to breathe normally. The weight of everything feels like it's settled in my chest, tight and unyielding.
Miras is standing by the door, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that same steady, concerned gaze. I can feel him thinking, piecing things together, the quiet concern in his eyes turning into something heavier—something that feels like frustration or maybe... disappointment?
I can't look at him. Not right now.
"Hey," he says, his voice soft but there's an edge to it, a sharpness that wasn't there before. He steps closer, his boots soft on the floor as he crosses the room. "What's going on?"
I can't answer him right away. I'm fighting the knot in my throat, trying to ignore the way my pulse races every time I think about what happened earlier. The panic. The way I hurt him. And the fact that I'm still terrified of doing it again.
"I—I don't want you next to me tonight," I murmur, barely above a whisper, my voice shaky, like I'm trying to pull back into myself and protect him from something that's out of my control. I can barely look up as I speak, my eyes focused on my hands, twisted in the blanket.
Miras doesn't say anything at first. He's just there, standing in front of me, the silence stretching between us. I can hear his breathing, steady but uneven, and then the tension in his shoulders eases slightly, just enough to make me think maybe he's going to understand.
But then he opens his mouth, his voice thick with something deeper. "You're still thinking you're going to hurt me, aren't you?"
My heart skips in my chest. "I don't want to. I don't want to hurt you, Miras, but what if I do again? What if I lose control? What if—"
"What if?" His voice breaks, frustration tinged with something raw. He moves closer, sitting beside me on the bed, not touching me, but so close I can feel the heat from his body. "What if you keep doing this to yourself? What if you keep pushing me away like this? What if I'm the one who needs to be here for you, not just when everything's perfect?"
I'm too shaken to speak, my whole body trembling at the force of his words. My eyes fill with tears, but I try to blink them away, refusing to let him see how close I am to completely unraveling. I know what he's saying, but I don't know how to face it.
"You almost died twice in the last two days, Cherish," Miras continues, his voice rising, a mix of anger and hurt I didn't expect. "And I'm supposed to leave you alone because you're afraid you're going to hurt me? You don't get to push me away like that. I need to be here. We need to be here. Together."
The words hit me like a slap to the face. The truth of them, raw and unfiltered, makes my breath hitch, and for a moment, I feel like I can't breathe at all. He's right. I know he's right. But I can't reconcile it. I don't know how to let him in when I'm still terrified of what's going to happen next.
"I'm scared," I whisper, almost too softly to hear. My voice cracks with the weight of it. "I'm scared I'll hurt you again, Miras. I'm scared I'm going to destroy everything."
His hand finds mine then, his touch gentle but firm. He doesn't pull me to him, doesn't push. Just... holds. "You're not destroying anything," he says quietly. "You're surviving. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone in this."
I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to make the fear stop—how to convince myself that letting him in won't make everything worse.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, steady, unwavering. "I know you're afraid of hurting me, Cherish. But I'm afraid of losing you. I'm afraid of not being there for you. Not when you need me most."
That almost breaks me. The words hit deeper than I can admit, and I feel my chest tighten, every breath a struggle. I want to tell him I don't deserve him. I want to tell him I'm too broken to be loved, to be trusted, to be held.
But instead, I just turn to him. Slowly, like I'm unsure whether I'll break if I do. I look into his eyes—soft, unwavering, but full of concern. And for the first time today, I let myself lean into him. Let the pressure in my chest ease just enough that I can breathe again.
"I don't want to lose you either," I whisper, my voice hoarse and raw. "But I'm so scared."
"You don't have to be," Miras murmurs, his arms wrapping around me gently, pulling me close. "I'm not going anywhere. We're in this together, Cherish. All of it. The fear. The pain. And even when it feels like we're breaking... we'll keep piecing ourselves back together. Together."
I cling to him, not sure if I believe it yet, but needing it to be true. My heartbeat slows, and I can feel him slowly guiding me towards the bed. I allow him to maneuver me. To my surprise, he gets under the blankets, making sure our bodies are fully touching.
"See? I trust you."