Page 156 of Yearn

Their absence had splintered me, left jagged edges where comfort should have been, and carved out a silence no medicine could fill.

I had learned how grief doesn’t fade; it mutates.

It becomes the weight in your ribs when you try to breathe too deeply.

It becomes the dark reminder in every celebration, whispering,someone is missing.

Although I would always step in to support J and Oliver—wrap myself around them as a shield, patch them up with whatever strength I could muster—the thought of them ever having to carry that kind of grief hollowed me out.

Shit.

I hated Scott, but I didn’t want J and Oliver standing in my shoes, blinking through the same lonely haze, forced to find a way forward when the ground itself had caved in.

The burden of grief was too heavy.

Too merciless.

It stripped a person down to bone, left them walking but never truly alive again. And I would bear it a thousand times alone before I let Oliver or J touch it once this year.

The keys scraped against the lock.

The metal jangled and twisted.

Her chest heaved. “Please, Dominic. Don’t.”

The click of tumblers falling came next.

Then, the door swung inward.

Scott filled the frame, pale and slick with sweat, eyes glassy, body swaying like he might vomit right there.

Something was off.

Way off.

Scott shouldn’t have been standing, not after that dose I’d given him. His pupils were blown, his skin clammy. His chest rose too fast, breaths shallow and uneven.

The sedative should’ve slowed everything down, not sped it up.

My jaw clenched as I took him in, my mind automatically cataloging symptoms.

Tremors.

Tachycardia—his heart was sprinting when it should’ve been crawling.

Overstimulation mixed with sedation.

His nervous system was caught in a tug-of-war.

Too much adrenaline in his bloodstream.

What the hell did you take before I sedated you?

But his eyes—even glassy and unfocused—tracked me with too much precision when I moved. Like a drunk pretending to be drunker than he is. Like someone gathering ammunition.

No. I don’t think he’s that far gone. . .there’s some manipulation too. . .but I can help him get there.

I stepped forward with the needle.