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TRISTAN

I squeeze her hand, feeling the warmth seep into my skin.

It’s cold with the realization of everything I’ve done.

“Lia, it’s not you. It’s me.” The words sound cliché, even to my own ears, but they’re true.

How do I make her understand the weight I carry?

The guilt I’m assaulted with every time I allow myself to think about what I’ve done?

Her eyes soften, and she shifts closer, her presence a balm to my racing heart. “Tristan, you don’t have to ask for forgiveness.”

I flinch, her words slicing through my defenses. Voice hoarse, I continue. “But I do, Lia. For so much.”

She shakes her head, firm yet gentle. Those eyes of hers are soft and hard at the same time. “No, you don’t. What you did was about survival. It wasn’t about right or wrong in the way we normally think of it. You did the most important thing of all—you survived.”

The breath catches in my throat, and suddenly the air feels heavier than it has before. “Survived,” I spit the word out, hating the taste of it.

“Yes,” she insists. “And surviving sometimes means making impossible choices. Choices that none of us can fully understand unless we’ve been there.”

“But I took lives, Lia,” I confess, the admission a stone dropping into a still pond. Those ripples are sure to bother others, and I’m scared to death about when I’m called to answer for my transgressions.

Her grip on my hand tightens. “And it wasn’t without a cost to you. I see that. But you need to understand something, Tristan. Sometimes, the act of surviving is the bravest thing of all.”

I blink, trying to absorb her words. Could surviving really be an act of bravery, rather than a stain on my soul? It’s not like my soul has been pristine. I’ve done shit that others shouldn’t forgive. I’ve been so focused on my own failures that I haven’t considered the possibility.

Amelia lifts my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze with her soft fingers. “I carried my own burdens, Tristan. Public appearances, speeches, playing the part. None of it came naturally to me, but I learned. It was necessary. You’re going to have to learn.”

I nod slowly, the pieces beginning to fit together in my mind. Her battles were fought in the public eye, mine in the shadows. Different situations, same war.

“It still feels like I failed,” I whisper, the truth clawing its way out of my hoarse throat.

“You didn’t fail.” Her voice is steady, reminding me, just like my mom used to. “You adapted. You did what you had to do, and that’s a success in its own right.”

I want to believe her. I want to shed this too-tight skin of self-doubt that clings to me. “But how do I move forward, knowing the things I’ve done?”

Her smile is sad, understanding. “One step at a time. We don’t erase the past, Tristan. We learn to carry it with us, like a shadow. It’s part of who we are, but not all of it.”

And those words are what I hang on to as I reach forward, wrapping my arms around her waist, needing to hold on to her tightly as I try to take that first step.