Page 632 of End Game

Ronan's fingers reach my elbow and reverse direction. “Still sad?”

The question doesn't surprise me this time.

I let it sit.

Mom's face comes back.

Dad's too.

The stupid crooked seven on their house.

Aunt Rachel cutting apples in her kitchen.

Elijah on the swing.

Christmas dinner.

All of it waits exactly where I left it.

My chest tightens.

The pain across my thighs throbs when I shift closer to Ronan.

Both hurt at once.

Different.

Real.

“Yeah.”

I swallow. “But I'm happy too.”

Ronan's fingers pause for less than a second before continuing.

“Good.”

I stare into the dark.

Every time I laughed this week, some part of me felt like I had betrayed the thing that happened.

Like grief was supposed to occupy all available space or it didn't count.

Like enjoying campaign night meant I wasn't devastated enough.

Like wanting sex tonight meant I had somehow recovered.

None of that is true.

My family still chose a version of me over the person lying here.

That still hurts badly enough that sometimes breathing around it feels like work.

And Ronan made me laugh tonight.

He hurt me because I asked him to.

Held me because I needed him to.