What if, when it does, I shatter into pieces I can never put back together?
I twist the hem of the oversized sweater they handed me before taking off, the soft fabric brushing against my fingers, but it does nothing to steady the storm swirling inside me. The elevator doors close behind me with a quiet hum, leaving me standing in the entryway of Ledger’s place.
The swanky glass-and-iron space feels like a fishtank—wide open and glaringly exposed. I stare at the skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, its reflection shimmering in the polished surfaces around me. It looks like a backdrop to someone else’s story, someone else’s disaster. Because this can’t be mine. Can it?
It’s all an illusion. That’s what I tell myself. Some elaborate trick my brain is playing on me because the alternative—that this actually happened to me—is too much.
My breath hitches, and I blink hard, trying to will the tears stinging my eyes to stay put. Crying won’t help. Feeling won’t help.
The worst part? Ledger is fine. Unshaken. Perfect, even.
When he opens the door and gestures me inside, it feels like stepping into a completely different world—a realm of polished modernity that gleams with clean lines and smooth edges. It’s worlds away from the grand, historical charm of the Doherty mansion. The shift is jarring, leaving me slightly off balance, like I’ve crossed into someone else’s reality. I’ve been thrust into a future that doesn’t belong to me.
The space is expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seattle’s skyline. The city lights shimmer against the glass like scattered stars, and in the distance, the Space Needle stands illuminated, casting a quiet glow over the horizon.
Everything about this place speaks of luxury: the polished hardwood floors, the minimalist furniture that looks curated down to the last detail, and the enormous sectional couch that seems more like a design statement than something to relax on.
Ledger shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it onto the couch. “Make yourself at home,” he says. “Teddy will bring some clothes for you later today.”
“Teddy?” is all I manage to ask.
“Yeah, the woman who owns the concierge place. She’s very efficient and the business is open twenty-four-seven,” he explains.
I nod because I don’t know what else to do. Of course it’s that Teddy, but my brain is in shock so remembering her is almost impossible. I’m definitely not myself. Words feel too heavy, too flimsy. But inside, my thoughts churn in frantic circles, fixating on a single, ridiculous question I can’t bring myself to ask.
Did they save the boxes in the basement?
It presses on my mind, unyielding and impossible to ignore, drowning out everything else. Of all the things I could focus on—shouldfocus on—that’s what sticks. My boxes. Most of my life is packed away in cardboard, untouched since the day I moved to Birchwood Springs. I can still hear Aiden’s laugh when she noticed, the teasing cadence in her voice when she called me ridiculous. I told her the truth: until the lawyer handed me the papers, the house wasn’t mine. Not really. And now, it never will be.
The thought feels too big, too overwhelming, so I cling to the boxes instead. Those little pieces of me, still waiting in the basement—are they even there?
They have to be. They’re all I have left of Mom.
I’m praying, silently, desperately, that her diaries and photos are safe. That’s all that matters. Those boxes hold the pieces of her I can still touch, still see. Everything else could burn, and I wouldn’t care.
“Here, drink this.” Ledger’s voice breaks through the haze, and I blink as he presses a steaming mug of tea into my hands. I hadn’t even realized I was sitting. One second, I was pacing, thoughts spiraling, and now it’s as if my legs are rooted to the couch, too heavy to move.
“Thank you,” I mumble, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. “I don’t even remember sitting down.”
“That’s called dissociation,” he says simply, lowering himself into the chair across from me. His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, but his eyes are locked on me, scanning my face like he’s trying to figure out just how bad this is.
“Dissociation,” I repeat, my fingers curling tighter around the mug. The warmth seeps into my palms, but it does nothing to ease the tremble in my hands.
“It’s when you feel disconnected from your thoughts,” he explains, his voice steady but soft, like he’s trying not to spook me. He leans back slightly, giving me space, but his eyes never leave mine. “It’s normal, given everything you’ve been through. You’re trying to protect yourself from everything that transpired.”
I nod slowly, though his words feel distant, like they’re floating in the air between us.
“I was talking to Mal on the plane earlier,” he continues, shifting his tone to something more practical, more grounding. “He said he’d send over some names and numbers for local therapists. People who specialize in . . . this kind of thing.” He pauses, studying my face. “But only if you’re ready. No pressure.”
There’s something in the way he says it—gentle, careful—that stirs something uncomfortably deep inside me. He’s giving me a choice: I can brush off the help and keep sinking, or I can take a step forward, even if I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
I glance at him, my emotions caught somewhere between gratitude and annoyance. I know what dissociation is. I know I’m not okay. I don’t need a lecture spelling it out, not now. But I also know he’s trying. He’s here, sitting with me, offering tea and therapist suggestions instead of turning away or pretending everything’s fine. It’s more than most people would do, and that realization leaves me feeling something I can’t quite name.
The truth is, I have no idea how I’m still standing—or if I even am.
“Thanks for the tea,” I mumble, the words feeling obligatory, like I need to say something, anything, to fill the silence.
Ledger doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he studies me, his expression unreadable, the kind of quiet that feels heavier than words. For a moment, it’s like he sees straight through me—all the things I’m trying so hard not to feel, laid bare under his gaze.
