Page 136 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Always a memory of us.

My heart hurts every time I read one.

He said we can come back from this, but I’m not so sure. Now that my memory has returned, I remember everything, the love, the fire, the quiet moments when it felt like the world didn’t exist beyond his touch.

He was the man I thought I’d marry, the man I trusted more than anyone. And yet, he believed the worst of me.

He thought I’d been unfaithful. That I killed his brother to conceal it.

It’s absurd—utterly absurd—and it hurts more than I can say that he could ever think such a thing of me. I truly believed he knew me better than that.

And yet… I know he wasn’t himself either.

He said as much, he wasn’t rational, lost control. I understand that, genuinely I do.

From what I’ve gathered, the subject of his twin was always a delicate one.

He never so much as mentioned his existence.

In some ways, I think Arlo spent most of his life trying to justify his brother’s actions, always finding excuses, always protecting him, because in his mind, illness forgave everything.

But understanding doesn’t take the hurt away. It doesn’t undo what he did, or how he made me feel.

He should have come to me, spoken to me, trusted me, but he didn’t. He chose to hurt me instead.

And even though part of me knows he’s sorry, another part hasn’t stopped bleeding for it.

And then there’s Zara. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in his bed, and the hurt returns all the same. He told me nothinghappened, and I do believe him, but the image stays with me, a wound that simply won’t close.

Then there’s the guilt.

It never really leaves, impossible to reason with. Because no matter how many times I remind myself it was self-defence, the truth remains, I killed his brother. I didn’t mean to, but I did.

And guilt like that doesn’t fade.

It persists.

Sometimes I think I don’t even have the right to be angry with him. How can I, when I took someone’s life? Even if it was to save myself.

It’s all tangled inside me.

Guilt, grief, anger, love. None of it makes sense. And I can’t untangle it on my own.

So, while I was still in the hospital, I asked Octavia to find the best therapist she could. Someone I can talk to when I’m ready. Because if I don’t, I think I’ll drown in it.

As of right now, I’m sitting up in bed, knitting absentmindedly while some Christmas film plays in the background. The lights on the tree outside blink softly in gold and white.

The door bursts open, startling me.

Octavia storms in, grinning, her energy almost too bright for the hour.

She’s wearing the most ridiculous knitted jumper with reindeer on it, wide leg trousers, and fuzzy socks.

The socks have Santa’s head wedged in a chimney, his legs kicking in the air, withMerry Christmas Ho Ho Hostitched across his backside.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re still in bed… in pyjamas!” she exclaims, hands on her hips. “Get up! We’ve got less than an hour to get you ready for dinner.”

“You’re not dressed either,” I point out.