Page 7 of June

January didn't ask permission. She just showed up.

I was lying in a hospital bed, feeling like my ribs had been hollowed out, when she walked in with that expression of hers—sharp as a knife, clean as pressed linen. She looked over the nurse's shoulder, signed something, and asked for my discharge papers like she was collecting dry cleaning. The nurse tried to speak, but January cut her off with a tight.

"She's coming home with me."

I didn't have the strength to argue.

The morning after, I wake up to the smell of strong coffee and the sound of a knife slamming against a cutting board like it personally offended someone. January. I sit up slowly, still wrapped in the clothes I wore home from the hospital. My head feels like it's been stuffed with fog. My chest aches. But I'm breathing again. That's something.

When I walk into the kitchen, she doesn't look up.

"You hungry?" she asks.

"Not really."

"Too bad,"

she says, tossing me a granola bar.

"You need something in your system that's not betrayal and cortisol."

She doesn't hug me. Doesn't baby me. Just gestures to the stool at the counter and hands me a coffee like I didn't almost fall apart twenty-four hours ago.

"You good?" she asks.

I blink at her.

"Right. Dumb question,"

she mutters.

"Okay. New question: you wanna feel better or not?"

I nod, cautiously.

"Good,"

she says.

"Because I made a list."

She slaps a sheet of paper down on the counter. The top reads .

"January's Blueprint for Surviving a Dumbass Man"

"Seriously?"

I say, staring at the title.

"Dead serious,"

she says.

"You can cry all you want, but you're gonna cry in motion."

I half-laugh, half-sniffle.

She points to item one.

"Join a gym. I already texted December. She's taking you to the one with the cute instructor and the neon lights and the playlist that sounds like a panic attack in Paris."

"January—"

"It's not about getting fit. It's about getting distracted. Also, endorphins. Also, December misses you and I think she's secretly worried you're gonna become one of those sad Pinterest people who journal in cursive and adopt too many cats."

I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me.

"Two,"

she goes on.

"Use the wedding money. Travel. Go somewhere where no one knows your name. Go dance in the middle of Rome. Or drink something fruity on a beach. Hell, go to Disneyland and scream into Space Mountain. You were gonna spend all that money on a man who betrayed you. Spend it on something that doesn't suck."

My throat tightens.

"Three: You already called your dad, right?"

I nod.

"Good. Go see him. You need someone who knew you before any of this. Who loved you before dance and studios and Aaron. Let him remind you who you are."

She points at the last item.

"Four: Try something new. A class, a hobby, literally anything. I don't care if it's underwater basket weaving or angry haiku. Rebuild yourself from the pieces he didn't care to carry."

I stare at the list, my eyes burning.

"Jan..."

She doesn't look up. Just shrugs and pours herself more coffee.

"It's not for you to fall apart forever,"

she says.

"It's for you to fall apart once. And then build again."

Before I can respond, she picks up her phone and taps a button. A group video chat starts ringing.

"Oh no—"

"Oh yes."

"Who are you calling?"

She held up a hand and turned the phone toward me.

"The cavalry."

First was December. Her face popped up on the screen, pale and a little startled. She wore two hoodies and had a smoothie in her hand.

"Oh my God, June, are you okay? I mean—obviously not okay, but... I brought frozen peas in case you needed... ice therapy? I'm not good at this."

I smiled, despite everything.

"Thanks, Dec."

"I'll pick you up tomorrow,"

she said.

"We'll stretch and maybe cry a little. I'm very flexible in that way."

Next was May. She had paint on her cheek and three unfinished canvases behind her.

"June! Babe, listen. You need to come to the studio. We're gonna smash something. Clay, canvas, a watermelon. Art therapy with chaos flair, you know? You in?"

Then Marchy. Sunglasses on indoors, revving her motorcycle in the background like she lived inside a rebellion.

"Who do I have to punch?"

she said, dead serious.

"Just point. Or send me a pin. I've got time."

I laughed. It felt strange. Sharp. Real.

They each said something different, something messy and flawed and exactly right. When the call ended, the screen went dark, and the silence returned, January stood up and smoothed her blazer.

"I've got work to finish,"

she said.

"Kitchen's stocked. Tea's labeled. Don't wallow too long."

She disappeared down the hall, heels clicking like punctuation. I was alone again. But not really. I lay back on her couch, heart heavy but a little more whole. Maybe I wouldn't feel better tomorrow. Or the next day. But this—this sisterhood of chaos and steel, of frozen peas and revenge art—it was something.

It was mine and I wasn't going to let Aaron take that from me.