Page 28

HARPER

Isaiah called last night. 3:23 a.m.

So wasted I could barely understand half the things spilling out of his mouth. Slurred apologies, recycled promises. A voice I used to know like a second skin, now foreign and hazy like a dream I don't want to remember.

"I need you," he said.

"My coworkers miss you."

"I made a mistake."

"I love you."

"Let's get married."

"I can give you a baby."

He said it all like it was supposed to fix something.

Like the fact that I had someone else's breath on the back of my neck—warm, steady—didn't matter.

Like I hadn't spent the last few days watching someone fight through pain just to breathe, just to smile.

Just to stay.

I picked up because I didn't want the sound waking her.

She'd finally fallen asleep, tangled in my arms like she belonged there. Like I did too.

I slipped out of bed so carefully I barely breathed. I didn't know I was shaking until the hallway light caught my hands.

"Harper," he whined, and I could already hear it—his manipulation dressed in nostalgia. "You always made everything better. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I'll fix it."

I let the silence hang long enough for my heart to stop sprinting.

"You don't get to do this anymore," I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—someone stronger. "You don't get to call me in the middle of the night and throw your life at me like it's mine to carry. It never was. I just didn't know how to say no before."

He laughed. Or maybe scoffed. "So that's it? You're just... done?"

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, stepped back so Millie wouldn't hear me. My voice came out quieter this time. But not weaker. "You made me small, Isaiah. For years. You didn't love me—you loved having someone who'd never ask you for anything back. You loved the way I kept folding."

"You're being dramatic," he snapped, and there it was. That sharp edge. The one I used to convince myself was just passion. Intensity. Love.

But it wasn't. It never was.

"You don't know what love is," I said. And my voice cracked—there, finally, the truth of it. "If you did, you wouldn't have waited until I left to realize what you had."

There was quiet. And then that sound. The one that made me feel sick: his soft voice, almost a whimper. "I still love you, Harper."

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

I closed my eyes, leaned my head back against the wall, and thought of her—of warm skin against mine.

The way she said my name when she was half-asleep.

The quiet strength in her shoulders even when she was in pain.

Her hoodie wrapped around my body. Her hand brushing mine on accident and not pulling away.

"No," I whispered. "You don't. Not the way I need to be loved."

It was the first time I'd ever said that out loud. I hung up before I could cry. But I did anyway.

I cried for the years I gave him. For the way I let myself get small. For the times I said sorry when I should've screamed. For the version of me I'm still trying to grow back into.

And this morning, I cried because the hospital where my mom is called.

It was just after seven. I stepped into the hallway so I wouldn't wake her. Millie was still asleep, her arm curled around the pillow I'd just been lying on. Her lashes resting soft against her cheeks. She looked younger in sleep. Untouchable. Like the outside world hadn't touched her yet.

I was already falling apart. The doctor's voice was calm. Measured. Too kind.

He told me the scans were worse. That the fluid's building faster. That the chemo isn't responding the way they'd hoped. That there's a clinical trial—risky, expensive, out-of-pocket. He apologized for even suggesting it, but I didn't let him finish.

I said, "Yes."

I didn't even ask how much.

He told me. I nodded, even though he couldn't see it, and said, "Please. Do it."

I ended the call and just stood there in the hallway with the phone still pressed to my ear like I hadn't heard him right.

Because I don't have that money. I've never even seen that much money in one place. My hands started shaking. My lungs pulled tight, like they couldn't stretch enough to hold everything at once—my mom, her lungs, Millie's warm body still tucked under the covers. All of it.

And then I cried. Pressed my forehead to the wall and let it come in waves.

I cried because I can't lose my mom. Because I don't know how to save her.

Because I have no idea what I'm doing. And because Millie has already done so much, and I can't ask her for anything more.

I can't be another weight on her shoulders.

But I didn't know she was awake.

I didn't know she heard.

And now she thinks I cried for him.

She thinks I still love Isaiah. And I can't blame her.

But I didn't cry for Isaiah. I cried for the girl I used to be.

For the girl who apologized for everything.

For the one who thought love meant being small and pliable and grateful just to be chosen.

I cried for the way I swallowed myself around him, and the way I'm still learning not to do that with her.

And I cried for Millie. For how soft she's become to me.

For how much I already want things I know I don't deserve.

For how scared I am—because none of this was supposed to be real.

Because she doesn't belong to me. Because the whole world thinks we're in love, and I'm the only one dumb enough to fall for it anyway.

She shifts beside me now, and I freeze.

We haven't said anything since she asked me to stay. Stay with me, she said—like she meant it, like she needed me here more than she needed her pride. So I stayed. Quietly. Carefully. On top of the sheets, curled toward her, close enough to feel her warmth but not close enough to hurt her.

"So, I get it. If you're still in love with him. But please don't make me believe this is more than it is if it's not."

Her voice was soft, but the words landed with weight.

And I wanted to reach for her. To explain.

To say no, no, no, no, you've got it wrong, I'm not crying over him.

I haven't been in love with Isaiah in a long time.

I don't even know if I ever really was. It was a trap I couldn't see until I got out.

But instead, I just lay there. Frozen. Because my throat burned, and everything in my chest felt like it was cracking open.

I'm not in love with him.

I wanted to say it. I really did.

But the words stuck. Buried under everything I've been holding in about my mom. About the phone call this morning. About the debt I can't afford and the fear that's been eating me alive since 7:42 a.m. when I answered the call I didn't want to take.

I thought about the doctor's voice. Calm. Professional. Cold.

"We need to move forward with a different course of treatment."

"It's aggressive. Time-sensitive."

"Your mother signed the consent forms, but we need a financial guarantee."

I didn't know that many zeroes could exist in one sentence. I said okay. Do it. Even though I have no idea how to make that money appear.

I can't lose her.

I cried for the woman who's dying in another fucking country.

And the girl I used to be, who always made herself small to keep the peace.

But Millie doesn't know any of that.

She thinks I'm tangled in an old love story.

She thinks I'm standing on the edge of hers, about to leap back into someone else's arms.

And I see it in the way she looks at me now. Like she's already pulling away. Just slightly. A soft retreat.

I can't let her believe it. So I sit up, slowly, the blanket slipping off my shoulder. I look at her.

"I'm not in love with him," I say. Quietly. Carefully. Like if I speak too loud, it might shatter something between us.

Millie doesn't look at me right away. She picks at a loose thread in the blanket, brows drawn in that worried line I've started to memorize.

"You don't have to explain, Harper," she says. But her voice is different now. Guarded. Hurt, maybe. Like she's trying to make herself okay with being disposable. "You don't owe me anything. We're just fake—"

"I'm not in love with him," I insists, reaching for her chin and forcing her to look at me.

Blue-green eyes find mine and they look hurt.

Sad. Exactly like they've been for the past two days.

"What you heard this morning... yeah, I was crying.

But not for him. I don't think I ever was in love with him.

I just... wanted to be wanted, and I thought the way he did was the right way.

Now I know better. I cried because I finally let go. "

"Harper..."

"I want to explain," I insist, voice cracking, tears blurring my face. "It wasn't about him. And this morning... this morning was about my mom."

She stares at me. Brows pulled tight. "Your mom?"

I nod, barely. The word's a stone lodged in my throat.

There's a silence that stretches between us—soft, heavy, like a held breath.

I don't know how to start. The air feels thick suddenly, like it's pressing down on my chest. And the way Millie is looking at me now—it's not with suspicion or hurt or distance anymore.

It's something else entirely. Still. Waiting. Open.

I press my lips together. My hands tremble in my lap.

"I wasn't going to say anything," I murmur. "Not because I didn't want to. I just... didn't know how."

Her hand twitches like she wants to reach for me but isn't sure if she's allowed to. I save her the trouble. I scoot closer—close enough our knees brush under the blanket. My shoulder grazes hers, warm and grounding. I breathe in slow.

"She's sick," I say, finally. "My mom. She's in Florida. Lung cancer."

Millie stills beside me, like even her breathing goes quiet. Her face softens immediately, and I think I see a flash of something in her eyes—shock, maybe. Concern. Pain, reflected back at me like it's hers too.

I stare down at my hands. "She's been fighting for months.

I flew out there after she got diagnosed last summer.

I didn't really talk to anyone. She didn't want me to tell people, didn't want anyone to look at her like she was dying.

But she's the strongest person I know. She raised me on her own, worked three jobs when I was little, never complained.

" I blink, hard. "She's everything to me. "

Millie's hand finds mine now—fingers wrapping gently around my wrist like she's holding a thread she doesn't want to break.

"I got a call this morning," I whisper. "While you were asleep. The hospital. The new treatment plan's not working the way they'd hoped. Her last scan was... bad."

Her thumb strokes slow across my skin. I can't look at her.

"They want to try something else. Something new.

Experimental. Expensive. But it's our only shot now.

And I don't have the money. I don't even have close to the money.

But I told them to do it anyway. I just said yes.

I didn't even hesitate." A tear slips off my cheek and lands on the blanket.

"I cried because I said yes without knowing how I'll pay for it.

Because I'm so scared. Because she's all I have and I can't lose her. I can't—"

My voice breaks. Millie moves at the sound of that.

She doesn't speak, doesn't ask for permission.

She just wraps her arms around me and pulls me gently into her chest, like she knows I'll fall apart if she doesn't. Her embrace is careful at first—gentle, soft—but the second I lean into her, she holds tighter.

I bury my face in her collarbone and let the tears come.

She doesn't say shhh or it's okay or don't cry.

She just holds. Her fingers thread into my hair and stroke slowly, like she's trying to untangle something tangled long before her.

I don't know how long we sit like that—wrapped up in each other, the blanket pulled half around us, my heart pounding like a bruise against her chest—but eventually, I speak again.

"She doesn't even know I'm broke," I whisper. "I told her I had a plan. I lied. I wanted her to feel safe."

Millie pulls back just enough to see me. Her hand moves to my cheek, wiping at the tears there, her thumb warm and steady.

"Hey," she says softly, her voice a little hoarse. "You shouldn't be doing this alone."

I look at her, and I hate how much that sentence undoes me. "I didn't mean for you to know," I admit. "I didn't want it to ruin whatever this is. I didn't want to dump all my mess in your lap."

She shakes her head, slow and firm. "This doesn't ruin anything."

I can't believe how close her face is. How kind her eyes are.

How she still hasn't let go.

Her hand moves from my cheek to the back of my neck, grounding me there.

Her forehead tips gently against mine.

I think maybe this—this exact breath, this exact closeness—is the only thing keeping me from falling apart again.

"Let me be here for you," she whispers.

I nod, tears falling again—quieter this time.

Not sobs now, just a slow, steady leaking of everything I've been trying to hold in.

Like my body's catching up to the weight of it all.

Millie shifts beside me. Not away. Closer.

The mattress dips gently beneath her, her hand tightening around mine like a promise.

Then—so soft I almost think I imagine it—she leans in and brushes her lips against my temple. Barely a kiss, not even a second long. But it lands like prayer. Like reverence. Like she's telling my skin something she isn't ready to say aloud yet.

I close my eyes. Her fingers thread between mine, slow and sure. She holds me like she means it—no rush, no pressure, no conditions. Just... there.

"You're not alone," she says again, quieter this time. "I'm here. Okay? I'm right here."

And maybe it's the way her voice sounds all rasped and uneven, or the fact that she's still holding me like I'm something fragile and important—but my chest caves in all over again. Not from pain this time. From the unfamiliar ache of being seen.

I let myself fall into her, into the curve of her shoulder and the heat of her body and the way her breath brushes the top of my head like she's trying to breathe calm into me.

I've never let myself do this with anyone.

I've never had someone to do this with.

Her arms come around me—slow and certain—and I melt. My body folds into hers like it's the only shape that makes sense anymore. Her hoodie soft beneath my cheek, the steady thump of her heart in my ear.

We sit like that for a long time. Not saying anything. Just breathing. Just existing in the hush of a bedroom that still smells like her and fresh laundry and the vanilla lotion I borrow from her when I think she's not looking.

I don't know how long it takes before I speak again. The words come slow, unspooling from somewhere deep in my chest, like they've been waiting for the right hands to catch them.

"She's my favorite person," I whisper. "My mom."

Millie doesn't move. Doesn't try to fix it or rush it or tell me it's going to be okay. She just rubs a slow circle into my back with her palm. Warm, gentle. Over and over, like she's drawing comfort into my spine.

I swallow hard.

"She used to sing while she cooked. Always off-key. Always loud. Even when she was exhausted. Even when we barely had enough to eat. She made everything feel... safe."

Millie's chin rests lightly on top of my head now. Her breath is in my hair. Steady. Grounding.

"I hate being here," I whisper. My voice shakes around the edges. "Not here with you. Just... away from her. Knowing she's there, sick and scared and still trying to be brave for me. I should be with her. But I'm here. Trying to pretend everything's fine."

Millie doesn't say anything right away. She moves instead. Gently, she leans back enough to see me, her brows knit together like she's feeling the same ache in her chest.

Her hand lifts to my face. Careful. No sudden movements. Just a slow reach, a moment of quiet permission. When I don't flinch away, she cups my cheek. Her thumb traces a soft line just beneath my eye, catching a tear that hadn't even fallen yet. Her skin is warm. Steady.

She looks at me like she's reading a story only I know how to tell.

"Why don't you go there?" she asks softly. Her voice is hoarse from emotion, lower than usual, and laced with something that sounds like longing.

I shake my head, a bitter little exhale slipping through.

"She doesn't want me to see her like that," I say, sniffling.

"She... we FaceTime every night. We call.

We text. She tells me to focus on my job and to be happy.

She wants me to remember her with her sunglasses on in the car, singing off-key and dancing with the windows down.

Not—" I stop. Swallow hard. "Not hooked up to machines and barely conscious. "

Millie doesn't answer right away.

She just slides her thumb along my jaw, slow and quiet like she's tracing each word I didn't say out loud. The grief. The fear. The guilt.

It's strange, how safe it feels to be looked at like this. Like I'm not broken. Like my pain isn't too much.

"She's trying to protect you," she murmurs, after a beat.

"Yeah," I whisper. "She always has."

The tears return without warning. They collect in my throat before they even hit my eyes. I blink hard, looking down, but Millie's hand doesn't leave my cheek. Her other hand's still twined with mine, her thumb gently stroking the back of it, back and forth, like she's grounding me with every pass.

"It just feels wrong," I say, quieter now. "To be here pretending everything's fine when she's there, alone, fighting this thing that's eating her alive. And I can't do anything except say yes to treatments I can't afford and hope that somehow I figure it out before they send the next bill."

She shifts closer, not with urgency but with purpose, like her body's answering some instinct deeper than language.

Her arms slide around me in one fluid, full-bodied motion—no flinch, no ask—just warmth, everywhere.

She holds me like she's done it before, like she's been waiting to, like maybe she needed this too.

And I don't hesitate. My body folds into hers like I've found the one place I can stop holding myself up.

I let go. My cheek lands on the curve where her collarbone meets the slope of her shoulder. Her skin is warm. Bare, soft. Her shirt has slipped just enough to let me feel her there, and I press into it, breathing her in like she's oxygen and I've been drowning all morning.

Her hand settles at the back of my head, fingers slipping into my hair, not pulling or stroking, just being there—anchoring me. Her other arm tightens around my waist, her palm splayed wide like she wants to cover every part of me that's unraveling.

Neither of us says anything for a moment. Just the sound of her breathing and mine. Just the quiet hum of something I'm too scared to name.

When she speaks, it's barely a whisper.

"You don't have to keep pretending with me, Harper. You wanna fall?" she says, her voice even softer now. "Then fall. I'll catch you."

I don't know how to breathe. No one's ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not without conditions or resentment or some hidden cost.

"I don't want to be a burden," I murmur, my voice cracking right down the middle.

Millie shakes her head slowly, her thumb brushing against my temple now. "You're not."

"You don't even know the half of it," I say, trying to laugh but it sounds like it hurts.

"Then tell me," she says, eyes steady on mine. "If you want to. I'll listen."

I don't answer right away. My gaze drops to her mouth. Her lips are slightly parted, breath warm. I could count the freckles on her cheek if I wanted. I could lean forward, and she wouldn't stop me.

"I just... I feel so damn helpless," I whisper.

"Like I'm fighting a war with a paper sword.

Every day I wake up and there's this new fire to put out.

Insurance, bills, scans, side effects, doctors speaking in percentages instead of promises.

I try to be brave for her but I'm terrified. I'm so fucking scared."

Her fingers slide from my hair down to my jaw, tilting my face up just slightly.

"You don't have to be brave here," she says. "Not with me."

And that—God. That does something to me.

Because I want to believe her. I do. I press my forehead to hers, eyes closing.

Her breath mingles with mine, warm and steady.

She smells like mint and skin and sleep.

I feel her hand move down to my back, slow, careful, like she's learning me piece by piece.

"I've been holding everything in so long," I whisper. "I didn't even realize how heavy it was."

Millie hums. "Let me carry some of it."

My eyes flicker open. Hers are already on me—steady, open, so heartbreakingly real.

"Why are you being so good to me?" I ask, barely audible.

Her lips twitch—not a smile exactly, more like something softer, sadder.

"Because you've been pretending no one sees you," she says. "But I do."

And maybe it's the way she says it—soft but sure, like it's always been true.

Or the way her thumb moves over the curve of my spine, warm and steady, grounding me in a body I've spent all day trying to escape.

Or maybe it's just been building this whole time.

But I lean in. Not because I want to kiss her.

Because I need to.

Because I'm tired of being strong. Because everything hurts and I don't know where else to put it. Because her voice is the only thing that's quieted the panic in my chest all day. Because there's a place just beneath her mouth where I want to press my sadness and feel something other than fear.

My lips brush hers like I'm not sure I'm allowed to be this close. It's not rushed or certain—like our first kiss. Like the kisses I've been dreaming about. This is trembling. Hesitant. Real.

Her breath hitches. Her fingers still on my back. And for one terrifying second I think she's going to pull away—but she doesn't. She stays right there, letting me close that last breath of space.

When we finally kiss it's not like a spark or a fire or whatever people write about.

It's a slow ache. A question. A letting go. I feel it in my ribs, in the backs of my knees, in the tight place behind my eyes where I've been storing everything I haven't said aloud.

My mouth moves against hers with more emotion than skill. This isn't some glossy, movie-perfect kiss. It's softer. Messier. My lips tremble. My hand shakes a little where it clutches the fabric at her side.

I kiss her like she's the first safe place I've known in months.

Like I don't care if she breaks me, as long as she holds me while it happens.

Her hand moves up, fingers brushing the side of my face, her thumb catching just below my cheekbone.

I press in closer without meaning to, needing to feel her—warm, real, here.

For a second, just one stretched-out, breathless second, everything goes quiet inside me. No hospital calls. No bills. No bruises from the past or fear of the future.

Just Millie.

Just this.

And then—gently—she pulls back.

Her forehead stays resting against mine. Her hand doesn't leave my cheek. But her lips hover just out of reach now, and I can feel her breathing hard, like she's trying to steady herself too.

"I don't want to take advantage of this moment," she whispers, her voice low and raw. "You're vulnerable right now. You're hurting. Just let me be here."

My heart cracks in a way that makes my eyes sting. She could've kissed me back and pretended it meant nothing. She could've let it go further and used the mess of this moment to blur the lines between us.

But she didn't. She's choosing to stay. To stay with me, not because she wants something from me—but because she cares. I swallow hard, still close enough to feel the ghost of her mouth on mine.

"I didn't kiss you because I was falling apart," I whisper. "I kissed you because... you're the only thing that's made me feel okay all day. Because I wanted to, Millie. You don't know—"

She exhales shakily, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's okay, Harps. Just let me hold you."

My fingers stay tangled in the hem of her t-shirt. My head drops to her shoulder again, and she gathers me back into her arms like it's the easiest thing she's ever done.

And in that tangle of limbs and silence, with her heartbeat beneath my cheek and her fingers stroking gently through my hair, I realize something I'm not ready to say out loud.

I don't think I've ever wanted someone the way I'm starting to want her.

All of her.