It’s Saturday. No work today. No work tomorrow. No reason to pretend I’m okay. I collapse onto the bed and check my phone. Four missed texts from Ryan.
RYAN
Can we talk?
Please, Emma.
I miss you.
Dinner tonight?
I exhale slowly, thumbs hovering for a beat before I type back.
I can’t, Ryan. I’m sorry.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand. It lands with a dull, final thud. Nova hops up beside me, curling into my stomach like she does whenever I’m not feeling well. I rest my hand on her head, scratching behind her ears, staring at the ceiling while the ache behind my ribs refuses to ease.
Today is a recovery day. Just me and Nova. Maybe a movie I’ve already watched about four hundred times. I grab the remote, scroll until I findHowl’s Moving Castle, and press play.
The opening soft and familiar notes fill the room. I sink deeper into the pillows. I’m twenty-six, and I’ll probably watch thismovie until I’m eighty. It always stitches me back together—even if the seams never hold for long.
Light flickers across the walls in gold and blue. Howl’s voice drifts through the speakers. I used to think he was justdramatic. Now I see the way he hides behind charm, the way Sophie loves him quietly yet fiercely. The recognition stings. Truth always does when it finds you this easily.
When Howl loses himself to his monster, my chest tightens. The room feels smaller. My thoughts echo too loudly.
You know what that feels like, don’t you, Jude?
Sophie doesn’t save him with force. She just...stays. She looks at him like he’s still worth loving, even when he’s convinced he isn’t.
My throat tightens. It feels unfair that a childhood movie understands me better than I understand myself. That it’s asking me to consider loving someone broken and dangerous. Someone who might not survive.
I bring a hand to my chest, pressing through the blanket like I can calm the ache if I hold it still long enough.It fucking hurts.
I trace slow circles on the fabric, pretending it’s nothing. Pretending this movie isn’t gently dismantling me. And...pretending I didn’t just hear exactly what I wasn’t ready to listen to.
I wake to Nova whining at the edge of the bed, her tail thumping softly against the frame.
Groggy, I sit up and blink at the gray light slanting through the window. My phone says it’s morning. I slept through almost all of yesterday.
I didn’t eat dinner.
Jesus.
The familiar dread settles low in my chest. This is how it starts—slipping back into the version of me that was born the day he left. The one who didn’t know how to breathe without him. I didn’t realize how bad he’d gotten until the overdose headline. Until I saw his eyes last night. Dulled, hollow, already halfway gone.
They say when you love someone, you let them go.
I can’t fucking do that.
After taking care of Nova and forcing down a piece of toast I can barely taste, the rest clicks into place. I know exactly what I need to do. The studio is empty today. No clients. No interruptions. Just me, paint, and sound.
If I’m going to survive this, I need to disappear for a while.
I hit play, and“Right Here”by Lil Peep floods the studio, bass vibrating through the floor, through my ribs. I twist my hair into a messy bun, grab a clean brush, and face the blank canvas.
Color answers first.
Blues. Purples. Streaks of gold that cut through the darker tones like light trying to break in. Every shade pulls something raw out of me—every stroke a feeling I don’t have words for yet. This is how I make sense of the noise. My chest is cracking wide open, pouring my very soul onto the canvas. I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m…sad.