Page 197 of Less

And by then, she was already sick.

Really sick.

Years of therapy.

Years of treatment.

Years of trying.

And somewhere along the way, she'd stopped taking her medication.

Stopped seeing her therapist.

Stopped asking for help.

The downward spiral that followed had been going on for months.

Maybe years.

No one really knows.

And that hurts.

Because despite everything—despite the fear, despite the betrayal, despite the violence—part of me still misses the woman I thought she was.

Part of me still feels sad for her.

I tell Less that one night while we're lying in bed together.

His hand immediately starts stroking through my hair.

My favorite thing.

“You didn't fail her, Rusty,” he says softly.

“But maybe I should've noticed something.”

“You're not a doctor.”

“I know.”

“You're not responsible for saving everyone.”

I sigh.

“I just wish she'd asked for help.”

“So do I.”

His fingers continue their slow journey through my hair.

Comforting.

Steady.

Home.

“But none of this was your fault,” he says firmly. “She was already falling apart, Sweetheart. And nothing you did caused it.”