Page 75

Thank you. Will do.

Before switching my phone to airplane mode and shuffling forward with the line.

Twenty-three hours is a long time to be trapped with your thoughts. The first leg to Tokyo had been the hardest—thirteen hours of fighting cravings, of replaying every bad decision I'd made over the past year, of wondering if I was strong enough to see this through.

I'd tried to distract myself with movies, with the book Con had given me for the journey, with fitful attempts at sleep. Butmy mind had kept circling back to the same questions: How had I let things get so bad? Would I ever truly be okay? Was I beyond fixing?

By the time we'd landed in Tokyo, I'd been a jittery mess, my body aching for a drink, for a pill, for anything to take the edge off. I'd called Con from the airport lounge as promised, the sound of his voice a lifeline in the storm of my anxiety.

"How are you holding up?" he'd asked, concern evident even through the patchy connection.

"I'm here," I'd replied, which was the most honest answer I could give. "Not great, but here."

"That's all you need to be right now," he'd said. "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other."

After we'd hung up, I'd wandered the terminal, eventually finding a sushi restaurant where I'd ordered without really thinking. The food had looked beautiful, artfully arranged on a wooden board, but after a few bites, my stomach had rebelled.

I'd barely made it to the bathroom in time, heaving into the toilet as my body rejected the meal. But it hadn't just been the sushi—it had been days of this now, waves of nausea and sweating and trembling as my system struggled to adjust to the absence of the chemicals I'd been flooding it with.

Detox. Such a clinical word for such a messy, humiliating process.

I'd rinsed my mouth, splashed water on my face, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me had been pale and drawn, dark circles under her eyes, cheekbones too sharp from weeks of barely eating. But her eyes had been clear for the first time in months, not glazed or dilated or bloodshot.

Progress, I'd told myself. Small, painful progress.

The second leg of the journey had been marginally easier, exhaustion finally winning out over anxiety, allowing me tosleep for a few hours. I'd woken as we'd begun our descent into Heathrow, the landscape of England spread out below us—green and grey and comforting.

My new home for the next six months.

As the plane touched down with a jolt, I thought about what awaited me—my mother's worried face, my brother's cautious support, the sterile halls of the rehab facility where I'd spend the next three months. It wasn't an appealing prospect. But it was necessary. It was the consequence of my choices, the price I had to pay for a chance at a better future.

James’s word echoed in my mind,"When you love someone, you love them and their flaws. I knew you before you were this person, I know the person you can be, and I loved that person, and I love this broken version too. Just go get your shit together, and I'll see you in six months."

Maybe he was right. Maybe love wasn't something you earned or deserved—maybe it just was, as fundamental and unquestionable as gravity. And maybe the people who truly loved you didn't do so despite your flaws, but with full knowledge of them, accepting the whole messy, complicated reality of who you were.

The thought was both comforting and terrifying. Because if that was true—if Con and James and my family loved me not because they were blind to my faults, but because they saw me clearly and loved me anyway—then I had been running from something real and precious. Something worth fighting for.

As the plane taxied to the gate and passengers around me began gathering their belongings, I took a deep breath and made myself a promise. This time would be different. This time, I wouldn't just go through the motions of recovery, ticking boxes and saying what the counsellors wanted to hear. This time, I would do the real work—the hard, painful work of facingmy demons, of understanding why I kept running, why I kept sabotaging myself, why I was so afraid of being loved.

Because I was tired of running. Tired of hurting people. Tired of hurting myself.

The seatbelt sign dinged off, and passengers began standing, retrieving bags from overhead compartments, forming the usual impatient queue in the aisle. I remained seated for a moment longer, gathering my courage.

Then I stood, pulled my carry-on from under the seat in front of me, and joined the line. One step at a time. That's all I could do—all anyone could do, really. And for now, that had to be enough.

As I walked through the jet bridge toward the terminal, toward whatever came next, I felt something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. Not happiness, exactly—I was still too raw, too sick, too scared for that. But something adjacent to it. Something that felt, cautiously, like hope.

I wasn't running away this time. I was heading to a destination. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I was facing forward instead of looking back.

Chapter 28

Geri

Rehab passed in tears, vomit, and lots of painful therapy sessions. One thing people don't talk about is the struggle you go through when you're in there. The questions you get asked, the things you have to pull up from the depths where they need to stay.

The facility my mother had found was nestled in the English countryside, all exposed beams and stone walls, trying desperately to look like a quaint country retreat rather than what it was—a place where broken people came to be put back together. My room was small but private, with a narrow bed, a desk by the window overlooking the gardens, and a bathroom so compact I could barely turn around in the shower. But it was clean and quiet, and after the chaos of the past few months, that alone felt like a luxury.

The first week was purely physical—my body purging itself of the last traces of chemicals, rebelling against their absence with a vengeance that left me weak and hollow. I'd thought I'd done most of the detoxing before I left, but apparently my system had other ideas. The nurses were kind but firm, bringing me water and clean sheets when I soaked mine through with sweat,checking my vitals with practiced efficiency, assuring me that this would pass.