Page 34

HARPER

The storm was always going to catch up to me.

I just didn't think it would sound so quiet when it did.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lane—"

It's the third time she's said my name. I should respond, I know that. But my mouth won't open. My throat is locked. My chest—god, it hurts. The phone feels slippery in my hand.

"We have to move quickly," the doctor says gently. "Your mother's numbers have dropped. We need to schedule surgery. Her lungs can't take much more."

Surgery.

I press my hand to my stomach like I can hold myself together from the inside.

"How much?" My voice barely makes it out.

It sounds like it belongs to someone else.

There's a pause. A number. I don't even catch the first half of it before I laugh—sharp and ugly.

Where the fuck do you want me to pull that kind of money from?

You want me to slice it out of my own body? Sell my bones?

"Miss Lane—Harper—are you still—"

I end the call. Just hang up. I don't mean to.

But it's that or scream and I can't scream, not here, not in Millie's apartment.

Not in the only place that's felt safe in months.

I sit down on the floor before my legs give out and fold forward, forehead to knees.

My hands are shaking so hard I can't hold my phone anymore.

It clatters to the hardwood and I don't move. I can't.

There's a buzz at the edges of my hearing. High and sharp, like feedback. It's inside me. I think I'm going to pass out. Or throw up. Or both. I don't hear her footsteps. I only know she's there when Millie drops to her knees in front of me and says my name.

"Harper. Hey. Hey, look at me."

I can't. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I feel her hands hover like she's scared I'll break. Maybe I will.

"I can't—I can't—I don't know what to do," I choke, and the tears come hard, from somewhere deep and cracked open.

"She's dying and they need this surgery and it costs—god, it costs so much.

I don't—" My voice breaks again. "I don't have it.

I'm trying, Millie, I swear to god I'm trying, but it's not enough. "

"Oh, baby." She says it like it hurts her to say. Like the word comes from her chest. Her arms come around me without hesitation, and I fall into her like a wave crashing into the shore.

She holds me while I fall apart. While the sob rips up through my ribs and makes me double over.

While I cling to her like I might disappear if I let go.

Her hand cradles the back of my head, her other arm locked around my waist, grounding me with her body and her breath and her terrifying steadiness.

I gasp, but there's no air in my lungs. Just panic and shame and the numbers I can't unhear. She doesn't flinch. She rocks me gently, chest rising and falling in rhythm against mine, like I can borrow her breath until I remember how to take my own.

"It's okay," she whispers into my hair, voice shaking. "I've got you, love. Just breathe. One breath at a time."

It's not okay. But I nod against her anyway.

It takes a long time for my breathing to settle. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The panic never leaves—it's sitting under my skin like static—but it's quieter now. Caged. Contained. Not winning.

Not while she's touching me like this. Her fingers trace small, slow circles into my back. Her cheek is warm against my temple. She hasn't let me go, not even a little.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. My voice is wrecked, thick and cracked and small.

She leans back just enough to look at me. Her face is soft and stern at once. "Don't you dare."

"I didn't mean to fall apart."

"I told you I'd always catch you," she says, and her voice is almost a whisper now. "I meant it. I'm not going anywhere when it gets hard."

My heart beats so loud I think she must feel it against her ribs. She doesn't take it back. Doesn't try to soften it or laugh it off. She just lets it sit there between us—real and terrifying and true.

I don't know what to say. So I bury my face back in her shoulder and let her hold the silence for both of us.

And then—softly, like she's afraid of breaking something—she says, "Let me help."

My whole body stiffens.

"No." It comes out like a warning, raw and final.

"Harper—"

"You can't." I sit up too fast, like I'm burning alive and I need distance before I say something I can't take back. My face is wet and my chest feels too tight and she's still looking at me like I'm worth something. "I'm not going to take your money."

"You're not taking," she says, calm. Too calm. "I'm offering."

"It's the same damn thing," I snap.

"It's not."

"It is," I spit back, and now I'm pacing, arms crossed, heat crawling up the back of my neck. "Jesus, Millie," I say, laughing, but it comes out twisted. "You think you're the first person to see me drowning and think you can throw money at it like that's a goddamn lifeline?"

She stands, slow and careful, like I'm something she's afraid might shatter if she moves too fast.

"That's not what I'm doing."

"No?" I snap, turning on her. "Then what is this? Some savior complex bullshit? Do you think I haven't had people feel sorry for me before? You show up in your perfect little world with your perfect life and think you can just fix mine like it's a cracked phone screen?"

She flinches.

It's small, but I see it. I feel it like a punch in my chest, and it makes my stomach drop because I didn't mean to hurt her—I just didn't know how to stop the storm. Not this time.

"Millie," I start, but my voice breaks. "I didn't mean—"

"No," she says softly, eyes glossy. "It's okay. You're hurt. Hurt people hurt people. Just say what you need."

Her voice is steady, but I can see the tension in her jaw.

The way her shoulders curl in just slightly, like she's trying to brace against the blow.

I shake my head and press a trembling hand to my mouth.

"I'm scared," I admit, the words barely above a whisper.

"I'm so fucking scared, and I don't know how to do this.

She's dying, and I can't stop it. And you—" I gesture at her, vaguely, hopelessly.

"You're good. You're kind. And I don't know how to let you be that. Not for me."

"I know," she whispers. "I understand,"

"No, you don't!" My voice cracks wide open.

"You don't listen to your mother through the phone struggling to breathe.

You don't lie to yourself about how well she's doing because if you admit how bad it is, it makes it real.

You don't have to figure out how to come up with forty fucking thousand dollars overnight or they won't touch her.

"

I sink down against the wall, hands in my hair, too hollow to cry anymore.

"And now you're here, and you want to help, and I'm just so—so angry. And I don't even know why."

"I do," she says quietly, moving toward me. She kneels, not too close, giving me space but not giving up. "Because this isn't fair. Because you've been fighting alone for too long, and the second someone tries to stand beside you, it feels like giving up control."

I look at her, eyes burning. "If I take this from you, and you leave—I won't survive that."

"I'm not leaving."

"You don't know that," I whisper, bitter. "People always leave. When it gets too hard, too heavy—"

Millie moves closer, slow and deliberate. She takes my hand like it's something fragile and holy. "I'm not people, Harper. I won't leave."

Tears burn hot behind my eyes again. "You'll regret it."

"I won't." Her thumb strokes over my knuckles. "Even if you hate me. Even if we burn out. I will never regret you."

The world tilts.

It takes me a long moment to realize I'm crying again—not from panic this time, but from the sharp, aching relief of being seen.

Of being chosen. Of not being left behind.

I fold into her, and she holds me without hesitation, like I'm not too much.

Like I never was. We sit on the floor, wrapped in each other, and the silence stretches around us like a cocoon.

Then, gently: "We're going to Florida, Harps. Call the hospital. Tell them to prep your mom."

I lift my head, dazed. "What?"

"You're not doing this alone," she says, brushing the hair from my face. "Two hours. Pack a bag. I'll book the flight. I'll take care of everything else."

My throat catches on the words again. "Millie, I—"

She leans in, presses her forehead to mine.

"You're allowed to let someone stay, Harper. Even now."

────────── ????──────────

5 hours and 45 minutes.

That's how long the flight from Vancouver to Florida is.

I don't remember the takeoff. I don't remember the clouds or the descent.

I remember the sound of my own breathing—tight, uneven—and the unbearable pressure behind my eyes that never quite turned into tears.

I remember the weight of Millie's hand wrapped around mine, her thumb tracing quiet, constant circles against my skin like she was trying to draw comfort into me with nothing but touch.

I didn't cry out loud. I just sat there, trembling beneath the surface, quietly drowning. She never let go.

The heat slams into me the second we step off the plane.

It's late February, and Florida doesn't care.

The sun is bold and merciless, thick in the air.

My hoodie clings to my back, damp with sweat before we even reach the terminal.

Millie is squinting against the brightness, her free hand tugging at her sleeves like the sudden warmth is unfamiliar.

We left snow on the ground. We left frost on windows and silence and a life I thought I had under control.

Now we're here, and everything's falling apart.

The last time I heard my mom's voice, she told me not to worry.

That she was okay. That she was proud of me.

And this morning, her doctor called to say she wasn't okay.

Not at all. That it was urgent. That it was bad.

That they needed a decision. A payment. A miracle.

I haven't said a single word since I lashed out at Millie.

She took care of everything—called her moms, explained with a shaking voice that she had to go, that she couldn't leave me to do this alone.

They didn't understand at first. They asked questions she didn't answer.

And still, they helped.

They booked a plane, called in favors, wired money like it was nothing.

Like it was water. Millie packed both our bags with hands that moved faster than her thoughts.

She forgot pajamas, but she remembered to bring my camera.

She kept asking if I needed anything, and I just..

. I couldn't speak. Couldn't find the air to even say thank you. She understood anyway.

She chose a hotel near the hospital. Not fancy.

Not extravagant. But close. Quiet. It smells like salt and cheap fabric softener and something floral in the hallway that makes my eyes sting.

The room is clean and cool, with one big bed and a view of the ocean that's far too beautiful for what we're here for.

I stand in front of the window for a long time after we arrive, forehead pressed to the glass, the sun sharp on the waves.

It feels like I'm somewhere I'm not supposed to be.

It's been months since I've been here. Since I left this state, this city, this hospital.

I moved to Vancouver with Isaiah and didn't look back—except to visit my mom once, twice, before she told me not to come anymore.

She didn't want me to see her like that.

Pale and tired and thinning around the edges.

She tried to protect me from the truth of what was happening, and I let her.

Because it was easier. Because I was scared.

And now she needs a surgery I can't afford.

And I'm still scared.

I sit on the edge of the hotel bed, still in the same hoodie, still clutching my phone like the call might come again and erase what little ground I have left beneath me.

Millie sits beside me, not touching, not crowding—just close. Present. Breathing quietly with me.

I think she knows I'm trying to hold it together. I think she knows I'm about to fail.

"I'm scared," I whisper. My voice cracks in the middle like something splitting. "I don't know what to do."

Millie doesn't speak at first. She just reaches out slowly, carefully, and laces our fingers together on top of the blanket. Her touch is gentle, but it anchors me.

"I know," she says. "But you're not alone, okay? Let me help, Harper."

I don't know how to be helped. I don't know how to let someone carry even a fraction of this weight without flinching. The grief is so loud inside me I swear I can hear it echo.

You're never ready to lose your mother. Not even a little.

You think you are. You tell yourself you've prepared—you've read the updates, talked to the doctors, watched the numbers drop, seen her body change.

You've braced yourself. But it's a lie. Nothing prepares you for the moment you realize the person who made you, who knew your every version, won't be there to see you change anymore.

No one teaches you how to live in a world that doesn't have your mother in it.

It's not just grief—it's disorientation.

Like waking up in a life that doesn't belong to you anymore.

Like forgetting how to be alive without her.

I squeeze Millie's hand, not even sure if it's gratitude or desperation or both. My mouth tastes like salt and guilt and fear.

"I'm not ready," I whisper, barely more than breath. I don't know if I'm saying it to her or the universe or myself. "I'll never be ready."

Millie doesn't try to fill the silence with platitudes. She just nods, her thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over the back of my hand like she already knew that truth lived in me. Like she's known it longer than I have. She leans over and presses a kiss to my temple—soft, brief, steadying.

"I'll, uh," she murmurs, voice quiet and practical, like she's holding us both together with to-do lists, "I'll order some clothes for us, and then we'll go to the hospital, okay? Take a shower, take your time. I already paid for the surgery."

The words land like a punch to the chest. My stomach drops. I sit up, pulling my hand away just enough to blink at her. "Millie..."

She shakes her head immediately, firm and calm, like she's had this conversation with herself a hundred times before I even opened my mouth.

"You can be mad at me all you want as soon as we get back home, Harper.

Yell at me. Cut me off. I'll take it. But right now?

Just let me be here with you. Let me take care of you and all of this. I can. I will. Because I care."

The words hit somewhere deep—somewhere tender and exposed and terrified inside me.

My throat tightens. I don't know what to say.

There's so much shame wrapped around the idea of being helped, so much fear that accepting love will make me lose it faster.

Like the moment I lean into her, she'll leave.

Like I'll somehow owe her something I'll never be able to give back.

But she's still here. Her hands warm. Her voice steady. She's still here.

I blink slowly, trying to remember how to be a person. "Did you say... you ordered clothes?"

She bites back a laugh, her cheeks flushing pink. "I only packed stuff for winter," she admits, glancing down at the wool sweater she's still sweating through. "Vancouver brain. I didn't think it through."

I don't know why that's what does it, but it is. That little thing. The way she's too hot in a snow-weather outfit in this muggy Florida hotel room. The way she looks mildly sheepish about it. It cracks something. A laugh slips out of me—real, if a little wobbly—and it shocks us both.

"We're in Florida, love."

She grins at me then and I swear it lights up the whole goddamn room. "Yeah," she breathes. "I noticed that. Just now. While melting."

The smile fades slowly from my face, replaced with something softer, more fragile.

I look at her for a long moment. Her messy hair.

Her flushed cheeks. Her tired, beautiful eyes.

And I feel the tears well again, but this time, they're different.

Still grief. Still fear. But also something else. Something warmer. Something like love.

And then I reach for her. Or maybe she reaches first—I don't know.

I just know that suddenly, we're wrapped around each other like we've done this a hundred times before.

My arms curl around her back, hers pull tight across my shoulders, and I press my face into her neck like I need to hide in the safest place I can find.

It's too warm in the room and I'm still wearing my jacket and I don't care.

I don't care about anything except this.

Her arms tighten around me like she feels it too—the way everything inside me is breaking all over again. Like grief's been sitting on my chest for days and I'm just now letting myself cry in someone's arms.

I don't sob at first.

It starts with a quiet shake, a breath that stutters in my throat. But she feels it, and her hand finds the back of my head, her fingers sliding gently into my hair like she's anchoring me in place. "I've got you," she whispers, and that's what undoes me.

"I can't do this," I choke out, voice raw, small, broken. "I can't lose her, Millie. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. I'm not—"

I'm sobbing. Full, aching, heaving sobs that rip their way out of me like they've been waiting in silence for too long.

My knees buckle, and we sink together onto the edge of the hotel bed, still wrapped up in each other.

Her hands never stop moving—her palm rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades, her cheek pressed to the crown of my head.

"I know," she says, and her voice is breaking too. "God, Harper, I know."

I don't know how long we stay like that.

Ten minutes. Twenty. An hour. Time stops meaning anything when you're crying for someone you're not ready to lose.

And still, she stays. She doesn't let go.

Not once. Not even when my crying turns to trembling.

Not even when I whisper over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," like grief is something I have to apologize for.

"You don't have to be okay right now," she murmurs, her lips brushing my temple. "You don't have to be anything but here. I'll hold the rest. I'll hold you."

And somehow, in that moment, I believe her. Even if just for now. Even if I fall apart all over again tomorrow. Right now, I let her hold it. I let myself be held.

I think— this is exactly what love feels like.