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New post.Caption says: “Back at the hospital.Missing her Aunt more every day.”

Another day.Same lie.

Ava’s hair is pulled back this time, cheeks too pale, expression blank.There’s a stuffed bunny in her lap—gray, fraying at the seams.

The comments roll in fast.Hearts.Prayers.Accusations soft as questions.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No news?”

“Praying for you both.”

“I can’t believe they haven’t figured it out by now.”

I click the video.

Rachel’s crying again.Makeup neat.Framed just right.

“I just want this to be over,” she says.

Not “I want Marlowe home.” Not “I miss my sister.”

Justthis.

I pause the video.Zoom in.

Ava’s stuffed bunny sits on the edge of the bed.

Left there like a trophy.

My jaw locks.

She’s doing it again.

But I can’t do anything about it.Because I’m here.

Because I fucked up.Because I let my rules flex for five fucking seconds.

I slam the laptop shut.

The sound ricochets.

My hand’s already twitching.I pull it into a fist.Hold it there.

Ava is not safe.Rachel needs to pay.

And I’m here pretending to be on vacation.

The bleach is in my nose now, lodged like a splinter behind my eyes.Not strong enough to burn, just enough to make everything itch.It’s the same kind of clean that never actually is.The same kind she used.

That chemical sharpness, sweet around the edges—like something rotting under perfume.

It hits the back of my throat and pulls something up with it.

I was six when my mother tried to boil me.

She woke me up in the middle of the night, whispering, “You’re sweating.You’re burning up.”I wasn’t.