I almost laughed—but there was no humour in it. Just disbelief.
“Dramatic? Elle, you don’t talk to anyone. You push us away, pretend like we can’t see you falling apart.” My voice rose—not in anger, but in grief. “You think we don’t notice how hard you’re holding it all in? You think we don’t see it?”
“Finn died, Elle. And Thorne—” I swallowed hard. The words burned.
“Don’t,” she snapped, voice sharp and dark. A warning.
“Don’twhat?” I stepped forward, closing the space between us. “Don’t talk about them? Don’t say their names? What, are you trying to forget they mattered?”
She turned her face away, but I didn’t stop.
“Do you think you’re the only one who lost someone? The only one with pain?”
I lowered my voice, but it hit harder.
“Thorne was mybrother,” I said. “And I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
The words burned coming out.
“So, yeah. I know what you're feeling. Maybe not every part of it, but I know what it’s like to carry grief like a goddamn second skin.”
I took a step closer, my voice rising—not loud, but rough.
“You think I’m not angry too?” I snapped. “I am. I’m fuckingfurious, Elira.”
My fists clenched. My jaw ached from holding back.
“I’m mad at Ashton. At Vael. At fucking Mother Ashford. I’m pissed you left us at Shade Tower without a word—gone, just like that. You could’ve been hurt, or worse dead! And you didn’t even tell us you were going. No note. No word. Nothing. You just left!”
Her eyes widened, but I didn’t stop.
“I’m pissed that you had to lose Finn the way you did. That it had to bethatbrutal. That no one gave you a choice.”
My voice broke slightly, but I pushed through.
“And I am goddamn furious at Thorne—for making us leave him on that dock. For choosing to stay. For not giving us another way out.”
The words seethed in my chest. I let them out, let them burn.
“But I’m stilltrying, Elle.” My voice lowered, rough and aching. “We all are. I’m trying to stay strong, to stay positive, to hold everything together like it won’t fall apart if I look away for five seconds.”
I shook my head.
“And it’s godsdamnexhausting.”
Elira stared at me.
For a long moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just breathed—shallow, sharp, like the room had turned too small to contain her.
Then her voice came, low and flat.
“I don’t know how to be different.” She said quietly. “I don’t know how to feel… things.”
Her shoulders sagged with the weight of it. Like the admission itself cost her something.
I didn’t speak right away.
I just looked at her—really looked. At the tired slope of her shoulders. At the way her hands fidgeted like she didn’t know where to put them.
