The house comes into view. Gray shingles. Japanese maple. The perfect lawn I pay someone else to keep perfect. The sky is the color of old bruises—yellow-gray.Will it rain?
Home.
The word used to mean safe. Right now it doesn't.
Cole pulls into the driveway. I stare at the front door—the same door where flowers appeared while I slept. While Cole slept next to me.
She was here. Right here. And you didn't know.
"Angelina."
I blink. Cole is watching me. Patient. Waiting.
"I'm fine." I reach for the door handle. "Let's go be normal."
I make it through the door. Through taking off my shoes. Through walking into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator like I'm going to cook something.
The kitchen is too quiet. Chesca should be here, chattering about her day, asking for snacks, leaving a trail of crumbs I'll pretend to be annoyed about.Mia bambina.
I pull out pasta. Sauce. The jar with the cartoon tomato that Chesca loves.
My eyes sting. I blink hard, swallow against the tightness in my throat.
You're doing this for her. So it can be over. So she can come home.
But what if I'm wrong? What if this is just another bad decision dressed up as bravery?
This was your idea. Own it.
The water takes forever to boil. I watch the tiny bubbles form on the bottom of the pot, and something wet slides down my cheek.
Now you're in your kitchen. The same kitchen she was two blocks from. And you're shaking.
I'm not shaking.
My hand trembles as I reach for the salt.
You held her gaze, and she smiled like you were amusing.
The salt shaker slips. I catch it before it falls, but my grip is wrong, too tight, knuckles white.
You think this makes you strong? You think one staring contest means you can handle her coming here? Coming into your house?
"Angelina."
Cole's voice. Distant. The kitchen shrinks. Walls pressing closer.
You're going to freeze when it matters. Just like you froze with Adrian. Just like you always freeze.
I know what this is. Dr. Huang explained it years ago—how the body learns what keeps it alive. Mine learned freeze. Freeze meant Adrian stopped eventually. Freeze meant surviving.
Knowing doesn't stop it.
Exhibit A: the woman who couldn't leave. Exhibit B: the woman who'll freeze again.
"I can't—" The words come out strangled. "Dio mio—I can't breathe."
My legs give out. I grab for the counter, miss, and then I'm sinking—sliding down the cabinet until I'm on the cold tile floor with my back against the dishwasher.