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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.