Page 94 of Played

---

The nurse appears with discharge papers, and Julian signs with his left hand, his signature shaky and unfamiliar. I watch him struggle with the pen, and something inside me cracks.

We walk to my car in silence. He moves stiffly, cradling his ribs. I want to ask if he's hurt there, too, but I can't form the words.

"I'm driving," I say. Of course I’m driving.

I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white. The parking garage is too bright, too loud. Every shadow makes me flinch.

"I should leave you."

"What?"

"This is going to keep happening. He's not going to stop. And you're—you're everything to me, Julian. I can't watch you get hurt because of me."

"Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull. Over."

I’ve not even made it out of the parking lot yet, and I stop.

He turns to me, his dark eyes fierce. "You think I'm letting you go? After this? You think that's what I want?"

"I'm trying to protect you."

"Then don't leave. Stay. Fight with me."

Tears spill down my cheeks. "I don't know how."

His good hand cups my face. "We'll figure it out. Together."

I pull back, staring at the cast. Stark white against his brown skin. Heavy. Suffocating. "How long?"

"Six weeks. Maybe eight."

Eight weeks without work. Without piano. Without the one thing that centers him.

Because of me.

I should leave him. Right here. Right now. Tell him he deserves better than this mess I've dragged him into. That I'm toxic. That everyone I touch gets hurt.

But when I open my mouth, different words spill out.

"Let’s go home."

“Sounds like a plan.”

"You’ll need someone. To help you. Cook, clean, whatever. I can do that."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Liar. I don't want to. Ineedto. Because if I leave him now—broken, vulnerable—I'll never forgive myself.

He searches my face, reading something there I haven't said aloud.

"Okay."

---