I close my eyes, my throat tight. “Yeah.”
“So don’t you dare forget that now,” she says, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare let the dark convince you that it’s easier to stop trying. You matter here. You matter tous.”
I swallow hard, my voice barely audible. “It just gets quiet sometimes.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But the quiet doesn’t mean you’re alone.”
I look up, meeting her gaze as she takes my hand, squeezing it.
“You’ve carried so much for so long,” she says softly. “Grief, guilt, silence. You wear it like armor, but it’s just weight, Reed. You can set it down now.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how.”
She offers a faint, tearful smile. “Then let us help you. Let me help you. You’re family, and family doesn’t let each other disappear.”
Something inside me fractures as I place my hand over hers, anchoring myself in the warmth of her skin.
“You’re too good, Cat,” I murmur.
She sniffs, her eyes wet but steady. “No. I’m just someone who understands what it’s like to almost lose yourself.”
I look down, blink quickly, and she squeezes my hand again.
“You’ll find your way through this,” she says. “And when she comes back, and she will, you’ll be ready to love her without losing yourself in the dark again.”
I nod slowly, the air thick between us, each breath feeling heavier yet somehow lighter too.
She finally releases, wiping her cheek, as she walks over to me, hugging me. “You’re loved here, Reed. I’m always here for you.”
I let out a breath against her shoulder, feeling the tear fall down my cheek.
For the first time since Layla left, I don’t feel like I’m suffocating.
I’m just breathing through this ache, one sunrise at a time.
layla
Brian’s pacing across our living room like a wild animal. He’s holding his phone as the screen is replaying the video on a relentless loop.
Thatvideo.
“You really thought this was smart?” he says, shoving his phone to my face.
I cross my arms, pushing his arm. “It’s just content, Brian.”
He laughs, straightening his sleeve as he shoves his phone into his pocket. “Content? Six million views of you parading around some hick town, letting people think you’ve moved on? That’s not content, Layla, that’s suicide for our brand!”
“I’m not our brand!” I snap, louder than I intend. “I’m me!”
His expression hardens. “You’re whatIbuilt.”
“You didn’t build me,” I say, turning to walk away. “You just took credit every time I breathed.”
He stops pacing, grabbing my arm quickly, squeezing hard. “What did you say?”
I feel my pulse thumping erratically. “You heard me.”
“Careful,” he warns, letting go of me. “You wouldn’t have half of what you do if it weren’t for me. The brand deals, the followers, people love me; you think any of that happened because you’re special?”
