"No." I yank the urn from his arms and clutch it to my chest. "No!"
I scream. I scream it over and over.
"This is your fault! You did this to me!"
Tears fill his eyes, and he looks at the floor. I can't pretend anymore. Because I'm dead inside. There is nothing left in me.
Nothing.
And I know that Javi is really gone.
And I know that I'll never be okay again.
My room is small. Sterile. White. But the tiles are sea foam green. Like the horror room at Moldavia. I wonder if Javi noticed that too when he was here.
In the sanitarium.
My therapist sits across from me, observing the pattern my fingers trace over the urn that doesn't leave my side.
"Tell me what's on your mind, Isabella," she says.
I forgot her name. Or I don't care. Names aren't important anymore. Nothing is important anymore.
"I was wondering if this was his room," I tell her. "I was wondering if the bed that I sleep in was his too."
"And if it was, how would that make you feel?"
I look at her this time.
"It would make me feel happy."
But that's a lie. Nothing can make me happy anymore. Not when grief is the only thing that exists.
My father thinks I'm wrong. Disjointed. Mentally incapable of understanding my own thoughts. He thinks I have Stockholm syndrome. He says I've been brainwashed into hating him and loving Javi instead.
But he's wrong.
I hate them both. I hate my father for his lies. And I hate Javi for leaving me. For ever loving me. For making me love him. I tell the therapist so, and she doesn't judge me. At least not out loud.
"I hate them," I tell her again. My voice is rougher this time. "I hate them both."
"Anger is a normal part of grief," she replies.
I don't want her justifications. Her agreement. I don't know what I want. I've been here for two weeks, and nothing has changed. She can’t fix me. Only Javi can.
But nobody understands that. They think I'm wrong for thinking so.
"Would you like to play the piano today, Isabella?"
I nod this time. Because I will play every day now. Every chance I get. I play him songs. But I don't sing the words out loud. Because they are only for him. Words only he can hear.
The room is quiet, and the therapist is too. I don't like it when she's quiet. It's easier when she asks me questions. Otherwise, I say things. Things that I shouldn't say.
"He isn't bad," I tell her. "You don't know him."
"I never said he was," she answers.
Her voice is gentle, but I don't believe her.