My sister hugs me in the driveway when they leave.
“You’re doing better,” she says quietly. “I can tell.”
My mom just squeezes my hand. “Call me.”
I promise.
I don’t tell them about therapy.
Or Sage.
Or how close I feel to something I can’t quite name.
They don’t need that weight.
When they drive away, the house feels bigger.
Quieter.
I stand in the kitchen staring at the counter I installed myself — level, solid, exact.
Rot in wood is easy to find.
Soft spots give.
Warping shows.
Cracks widen if you press.
People look fine right up until they collapse.
Some nights I miss her.
Not the chaos.
Not the volatility.
Her laugh.
The way she tucked her feet under her when she was thinking.
How she actually listened when I talked about stupid things.
I miss being wanted with that kind of intensity.
Being the center of someone’s universe.
And then I remember the cost.
How tight my world got.
How small.
How every decision carried unpredictable fallout.
Love shouldn’t feel like a negotiation.
Or a test.
