Page 258 of Disarm
“I…” I swallow again. “I fucked up.”
Miguel’s eyes go sharp. “No,” he says, immediate and fierce. “You got overwhelmed. That’s it. You’re still here. That’s the only part that matters.”
Hot tears sting behind my eyes.
“I broke my promise,” I whisper. “I said… I said I’d tell you. Before. If it got… that loud.”
His mouth twists and for a second he looks like he might shatter. He takes a breath instead. “You told me you were tired,” he says. “You told me the volume was a seven. You told Dr. K about the nightmares. You did a lot of things right. This isn’t a grade on your performance, baby. It’s your nervous system screaming and we need to listen better.”
Cassie gives my hand a last pat. “I’m going to go update your chart and let the doctor know you’re awake enough for real conversation,” she says. “If you feel like you’re going to throw up, there’s a little green bag right here, okay? Hit the call button if you need anything.”
She slips out, leaving us in a bubble of beeps and fluorescent hum.
Miguel’s eyes are wet. The left one has a tiny red burst in the white. There’s a smear of something on his hoodie sleeve.
“You found me,” I say softly.
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh and might be a sob. “Yeah,” he says. “I got the fun job again.”
The joke is weak and shaky, but it lands.
Barely.
“I locked the door,” I say. The memory is hazy, but that part sticks. “I thought… if I did it, I didn’t… want you to see.”
His hand tightens around mine hard enough to hurt.
“Toofuckingbad,” he says, his voice shaking a little. “I’m greedy. I want you alive, even if it hurts to see you scared. Even if it hurts like this.”
A tear slips down his cheek. He swipes it away angrily with the heel of his hand, like it betrayed him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words feel insufficient and too big at the same time. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I… used you for sex to drown it all out. I’m sorry I lied about the volume. I’m sorry?—”
Miguel leans in and very gently presses his forehead to mine. The angle is weird from the bed, but he makes it work.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough. “You don’t have to confess all your sins in one go. This isn’t church. There’s no line of people waiting for the booth.”
“I almost made you watch me die,” I say, and my voice cracks open.
That makes him flinch. His fingers curl around mine like he’s trying to fuse our hands together.
“You didn’t,” he says. “You’re here. You scared me, yeah. You drop-kicked me straight into one of my worst nightmares. But you didn’t succeed. Your body said, ‘Absolutely the fuck not,’ and you are here.”
I let that sink in, slow and painful.
The thought that my body might have chosen life in spite of my brain is… a lot.
“What… happens now?” I manage.
Miguel pulls back enough to look at me. There’s fear and love and something like relief wrestling in his eyes. “Doc’s gonna come in and give you the official spiel,” he says. “But the short version is: monitoring, talking to the psych people, and more support. You’re on the ICU floor now. They’ll probably move you to the psych side or at least put you on a hold once you’re medically clear.”
I grimace. “A hold,” I repeat. The word tastes like metal. “Like… the seventy-two-hour thing?”
“Probably,” he says quietly. “They call it different things depending on who you talk to. Dr. K knows. She’s… involved.”
Of course she is.
Shame and gratitude wrestle in my chest. She warned me about this exact slope. I rolled down it anyway. A knock on the door saves me from spiraling. It opens a crack. “¿Puedo pasar?” Mom’s voice carries, small and careful.
