I hesitate for a second before going in. Everything is exactly how I left it.
“It’s time for your meds,” he adds, his tone shifting, more controlled now, more practical. He reaches into his pocket, popping a small white pill from the Sertraline packet and holding it out to me.
I stare at it.
“I hate those,” I murmur. “They make me feel . . . nothing.” He watches me carefully. “Not sad,” I go on. “Not happy. Just numb.”
“I think that’s the point,” he replies.
I shake my head slightly, my gaze still fixed on the pill. “How does that help?” I ask quietly. “The hurt’s still there. It doesn’t go away. It just waits.” My chest tightens. “And when I stop taking them, it’ll all still be there, won’t it?” I add. “Everything that’s happened. Nothing changes. So, these,” I say, gesturing to the pill, “are just like a Band-Aid holding it together temporarily.”
He shifts his weight, uncomfortable. “I’d give anything to feel nothing right now,” he says eventually, his voice low. “And yeah, they’re just like a plaster, holding you together until you’re healed enough to make it alone.” He holds it closer. “Take it, Wynter,” he adds, softer now. “Let’s not start this badly.”
There’s something almost pleading in his tone, so I take the damn pill, popping it in my mouth and swallowing. I stick outmy tongue to show him it’s gone, and he gives a slight nod. “Good girl.”
RAY
It feels strange having Wynter back. Too familiar, almost like she never left.
She’s curled up on the couch in soft pink pyjamas, the kind that look too innocent for everything she’s been through, and a blanket pulled up to her chin while some film plays quietly in the background. I’m at the kitchen table, with my laptop open, and emails staring back at me unanswered.
I haven’t read a single one because my attention keeps drifting back to her.
She hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. Her eyes are fixed on the same spot on the rug, unfocused, like she’s somewhere else entirely.
I watch her for a moment longer before exhaling and snapping my laptop shut.
I push to my feet and cross the room, lowering myself beside her. She glances at me as I reach for the remote and switch the TV off. The silence that follows feels louder than the film did.
“Anika’s favourite game was question time,” I say.
Something soft flickers across Wynter’s face. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “She made me play it all the time.”
“I figured,” I reply, watching her closely. “She never let anyone sit in silence too long. Alright,” I say, settling back slightly. “Let’s play.” She shifts a little, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, like she’s bracing. “I’ll start,” I add. “What happened when you went home?”
Her smile fades. “I remembered everything,” she says quietly. “How sad I was. How much I’d lost.” Her voice wavers slightly. “It all just came back at once.” She swallows. “I missed my mum.I missed Josh. I felt guilty about Anika and . . .” She hesitates, then glances at me. “Well, you didn’t exactly make things easier.”
I nod slowly, taking that without argument. “Did you tell anyone how bad it was?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t really know how to explain it,” she admits. “It felt stupid saying I couldn’t cope when nothing had actually changed . . . except everything had.”
“When did you find out about the baby?” I ask after a moment.
She gives a small smile, wiping at a tear before it falls. “You know the rules,” she says softly. “One question each, and you’ve already had two.”
I huff out a quiet breath. “Fair enough.”
She studies me for a second. “How was the funeral?”
That familiar burn hots my chest. Even now, it’s like something grips around my lungs when I think about it. “It was packed out,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. “They had to put a screen outside because there wasn’t enough room in the church.” I shake my head slightly, a sad smile pulling at my lips. “She would’ve loved that,” I add. “All those people. All that attention.”
Wynter nods, her expression soft. “Did you arrange it?” she asks. “And do everything she wanted?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She left instructions for everything. Down to the music, the flowers . . . even what people should wear.” I huff a quiet laugh. “Typical Anika.”
“Did you feel angry at her?” Wynter asks gently.
The question catches me off guard and I hesitate, my brow furrowing. “Yeah,” I admit eventually. “I still do sometimes.”