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"You sound like you might be a little."

"I'm not angry." I'm not, there's something sitting in my chest that's more complicated than anger. I think it’s relief and something that feels like grief for years of helping him. "I'm glad about the program. I'm glad you called."

"Me too." Quieter. "I'm sorry, Sadie. For all of it."

I don't say it's fine because it wasn't always fine. I don't say don't worry because I did worry, for years, at the cost of things I didn't always have to spare.

"I know," I say instead. "Thank you for telling me."

We stay on the phone for a while after that. He asks about Regionals, and I tell him everything. The floor routine. The Debussy piece. The way I finally stuck the landing. He laughs at something I say, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn't sound like the broken man I've been worrying about. He sounds like my brother. My real brother. I hold onto that sound long after the call ends.

Something inside me feels lighter. The weight Dan left behind is still there, but it doesn't press quite as hard anymore. The sharp edges have softened, the ache hasn't gone, but it no longer feels like it's swallowing me whole.

I look at my phone for a moment longer, pulling up my messages I take in a deep breath, and I type as I walk to my bedroom.

Sadie

I hope you're okay. Wherever you are.

Throwing the phone on the bed I get into the shower, I need a long hot shower.

***

I step out of the shower, my skin still warm and damp, and my towel is wrapped loosely around my body. Steam curls after me into the bedroom like it’s trying to pull me back, and at the moment I wouldn’t mind going back in there.

I grab some oil, and start putting it on my legs when I glance over to the laptop on my desk.

Don’t do this. You’re just going to make it worse. He ignored you for days. He left you hanging when you needed him most. What kind of person does that?

My feet move anyway because it seems like my body doesn’t want to listen to my head. I stop a foot away; my heart is hammering so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape my chest. My hand hovers over the lid. I snatch it back, turn sharply, and pace back to my oil, looking out the window, I stare out at the dark quad, trying to talk myself down.

You’re pathetic. Begging a man you’ve never seen without a mask to come fuck you because you’re stressed, because Miles went quiet? Because you’re lonely? This is how people get hurt. This is how people disappear.

I pace back to the desk, chewing the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. The violet bracelet on my wrist catches the lamplight, mocking me. The flowers on the counter are still fresh, still perfect, watching, waiting, and invading every quiet moment while giving me nothing when I actually asked.

Just go to bed. Forget him. Forget both of them.

My fingers tremble as they finally brush the lid. I hesitate one last second, my breath shallow and shaky, then I lift it slowly, like it might explode.

The screen flickers to life. I see if my camera and mic are both on. They are and now I have no idea what to say to him.

Then the cursor moves.

I’VE MISSED YOU.

My stomach twists. I shake my head slowly, my fingers tracing the violet bracelet on my wrist like it might burn me.

I’M SORRY. THERE WAS SOMETHING HAPPENING.

“I needed you,” I whisper. My voice cracks on the last word. I press my lips together, swallowing hard. “I needed…”

The cursor blinks at me.

HOW CAN I MAKE IT UP TO YOU?

“You can’t.” The words come out sharp. I slam the laptop shut so hard the desk rattles. My hand stays on the lid for a second, trembling, before I look down at the bracelet again.

How can he make it up to me? I don’t know how to answer that question, but how do I tell him what I want without sounding like a crazy person? Even, I think I’m crazy.