If I had written something, it might’ve been this:
Dear Iris,
You were right. About all of it.
The swing. The dinner. The things we don’t say until someone builds a place safe enough to say them in.
I’m still scared. But I’m starting to understand that scared doesn’t have to mean stuck.
He sees me. I don’t know what to do with that. But I think I want to find out.
I didn’t write it. But the pen stayed in my hand.
9
WILLA
The high after the potluck didn’t last long.
I woke up late, disoriented and overheated, with a pounding headache and glitter still stuck to the side of my face. There were three empty LaCroix cans on the nightstand and an unfinished sketch across my lap—half a table, two loosely outlined chairs, no people in them.
Typical.
Downstairs, the house was already alive. I could hear Harper clacking at her keyboard and June humming some soft, sad song while she made breakfast like the weight of the world could be baked into a frittata.
I didn’t move.
Not because I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to face what came next.
The day after joy always hit harder. The contrast. The come-down. The sharp edges of reality that waited for you once the lights dimmed and the music stopped.
It had been good last night. Better than I expected. But I could already feel myself bracing for the unraveling. I’d made it through one full day without messing something up, and that made me nervous. Nervous people ran. I’d always run.
And here I was. Still here.
Still scared.
Still trying.
God, it was exhausting.
When I finally emerged intothe kitchen—post-shower, post-caffeine, post-denial—Harper was sitting at the table with her third cup of coffee, reading something on her phone that was clearly pissing her off.
June was by the sink, arms elbow-deep in soapy water. Her hair was tied up, her sweatshirt sleeves rolled past her elbows. She looked like she’d been up for hours.
I slipped into a chair without a word.
Harper glanced up. “Rough night?”
“I was emotionally supporting people with my whole chest. That requires recovery time.”
June didn’t look up. “There’s French toast.”
“Is it made with real bread or whatever health crime you usually use?”
“Brioche. With cinnamon. Don’t push your luck.”
I grinned. She was tired, but her voice had that gentle, dry rhythm I loved best. It meant she wasn’t spiraling. Not yet.
