*Trigger warnings* overdose, mentions of suicide, amnesia, angst, arguments, tension, family drama*
Walking into school for the first time since my brain got scrambled is weird enough. Everything is familiar but off, like stepping into a life I recognize but don't quite belong to.
Then I see Miras practically radiating hostility at Nakita from across the hall, and suddenly, my entire day has a new focus.
He's standing stiff, jaw clenched, his eyes dark and unreadable. Nakita looks tense, her lips pressed into a tight line, but it's Miras who looks ready to snap. When he moves past her, he doesn't just walk—he shoulders past, like he can't stand being anywhere near her.
She mutters something under her breath. He doesn't even acknowledge it.
I pick up my pace, catching up to him as he heads to our lockers like nothing happened. Like I didn't just watch him try to murder someone with his aura alone.
"So…" I start, matching his stride. "Are we just gonna ignore whatever that was?"
"Yep," he says, not even glancing at me.
I blink. Oh, we're doing this today?
I should probably leave it alone.
I know that.
But the thing is—I can't.
The memory of Miras and Nakita's tense stand-off keeps replaying in my head, looping like a song I can't shake. He refused to tell me what that was about, and I let it go—for now. But if there's one mystery I do have the right to dig into, it's the one about us.
And, apparently, the one about them.
I wait until lunch, when there's just enough noise to make our conversation feel private but not enough to give him an easy excuse to ignore me. I nudge my tray closer to his and lean in slightly.
"So," I start, casual—too casual. "You and Nakita, huh?"
Miras doesn't even blink. "No."
I raise an eyebrow. "No?"
"Correct." He takes a bite of his food, completely unbothered.
I narrow my eyes. "Miras, I literally just watched you look at her like you wanted to throw her into traffic."
His fork pauses for a fraction of a second before he keeps eating. "And?"
I sigh, resisting the urge to shake him. "And that kind of hatred doesn't just appear out of nowhere. Something happened between you two."
He shrugs. "Things happen all the time."
I stare at him. "You dated her."
Miras finally looks up at me, his expression unreadable. "Yeah."
My fingers tighten around my fork. "Why did you guys break up?"
"Many reasons."
"Give me one." He doesn't.
"She cheated on you?"
"No."
"You cheated on her?"
"No!"
I scoff. "Well, clearly it didn't end well."
He gives a short, humorless laugh. "No. It didn't."
I study his face, looking for something—regret, nostalgia, anything—but all I see is exhaustion. Like just talking about it is draining.
I swallow. "So? What happened?"
Miras shakes his head. "Not important."
I push my food towards him, standing up from the table. "I bet she'll tell me."
Miras grabs my wrist, pulling me back down before I can fully stand. "Because I liked you, okay? And for reasons I can't tell you, I need you to stay away from her."
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden urgency in his voice.
Miras isn't just being his usual difficult self—there's something sharp under the surface, something almost desperate. I glance down at where his fingers are wrapped around my wrist. He isn't squeezing, but there's weight behind his grip, like he's afraid to let go.
Slowly, I sink back into my seat. "You liked me?" I repeat, my voice softer now.
Miras exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Yeah, Cherish. I liked you." His jaw tenses. "Still do, apparently, if my terrible life choices are any indication."
My breath catches in my throat.
I should have something witty to say. Some kind of comeback to knock him off balance the way he's just knocked me.
But I don't.
I can only stare at him, heart hammering.
Then my brain finally catches up to the second thing he said.
I narrow my eyes. "And what reasons would those be?"
Miras doesn't answer right away. Instead, his grip on my wrist loosens, and he pulls his hand back like he's suddenly too aware of what he's doing.
"Just trust me on this one," he says, quieter now. "Stay away from her."
I frown. "Miras—"
"I mean it." His eyes meet mine, serious. "Don't go digging into something you're not ready to find."
The weight of his words settles in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable.
I hate that.
I hate not knowing.
But I hate the way his voice just sounded even more.
Like there's something in the past I don't want to remember.
I don't have to wait very long. Barely an hour after lunch, Nakita finds me. I'm at my locker, flipping through my schedule to remind myself where the hell I'm supposed to be going next, when I catch a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. Before I can even process it, someone leans against the lockers beside mine with far too much confidence.
"Thought you'd be taller."
I glance up, and—yep. There she is.
Nakita looks me over, like she's assessing a threat and coming up unimpressed. She's just as I remember from before my brain got scrambled—sharp features, calculating eyes, and the kind of presence that demands attention even when she's silent.
I tilt my head. "And I thought you'd be smarter."
Her smirk flickers, but she recovers fast. "Cute."
I shut my locker with a click, turning to face her fully. "What do you want?"
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "A little birdie told me you were asking questions about me."
I barely stop myself from glaring. Miras.
I cross my arms. "So? If you have nothing to hide, why does it matter?"
Nakita chuckles, shaking her head. "Oh, sweetheart, you really don't remember, do you?"
A chill creeps up my spine at the way she says it—like she's enjoying the upper hand just a little too much.
I keep my expression neutral. "Enlighten me."
She taps a manicured finger against her chin, pretending to think. "Mmm… nah."
I exhale sharply through my nose. "You're so annoying."
She grins. "And yet, you still wanna know what happened."
I do. And she knows it.
But there's no way in hell I'm giving her the satisfaction of saying it out loud.
Instead, I shift my weight, mirroring her smirk. "You're right—I do wanna know. But you know what's really interesting?" I lower my voice to match hers. "The fact that Miras hates you now."
The grin slips from her face for the first time.
Bullseye.
I raise an eyebrow. "You wanna tell me why?"
Nakita exhales, schooling her expression back into indifference. "You'll figure it out eventually." She shrugs. "Whether you like it or not."
Then she steps back, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "See you around, sweetheart."
She disappears into the crowd before I can say another word.
I stand there for a moment, pulse still slightly elevated, Nakita's parting words lingering in my head.
"Whether you like it or not."
I have a feeling I really won't like it.
The drive to Dewey's school is silent. The kind of silence that hangs heavy, the kind where the air seems to thicken with every second that passes. I sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window, avoiding the tension that wraps itself tightly between us. Miras's hands are steady on the wheel, his knuckles pale against the black leather of the steering column. His jaw clenched, his focus on the road, but there's something underneath it all. Something taut, like he's fighting off something just beneath the surface.
I steal a glance at him.
Miras doesn't acknowledge me, keeping his eyes ahead, but the rigidness in his posture tells me everything.
Finally, I break the silence. "You're awfully quiet."
His eyes flick to mine for a second, but his expression doesn't change. "So are you."
I exhale sharply, frustrated by the quiet. "You got all weird at lunch."
His grip tightens on the wheel, his fingers digging into the leather like he's trying to control something. His jaw tenses. "I told you, it's not your business."
I scoff. "Of course it's my business. I'm the one who has to deal with her now, right?"
He flinches, just barely, but it's enough for me to notice. "You don't have to deal with anything, Cherish." His voice is calm, too calm. But I can hear the edge beneath it. "I'm handling it."
"Handling it?" I glance at him, trying to catch his gaze, but he keeps his eyes straight ahead. "You're not handling anything. You're shutting me out."
There's a long pause, and for a moment, I think he might say something else. But he doesn't.
Instead, he mutters, "You wouldn't understand."
I clench my fists in my lap, fighting the frustration rising in my chest. "Then make me understand. Don't just keep pushing me away every time something gets uncomfortable."
His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn't answer.
The silence settles back over us, thick and suffocating. I look out the window again, the city blurring past, but inside, I feel like I'm suffocating.
When we pull up to Dewey's school, I'm almost relieved.
I don't wait for Miras to park fully before I push the door open, eager to escape the tension. But as I step out, I glance at Miras one last time. He's still sitting there, hands still gripping the wheel, eyes straight ahead, and I can't shake the feeling that we're both stuck in the same place—too afraid to move forward, but too proud to look back.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts that swirl in my head.
And then Dewey's there, grinning as he bounds up to the car.
"Hey! Ready to go, guys?"
Miras doesn't respond right away, but I don't wait for him. "Yeah, yeah. We're coming."
I slide into the backseat, trying to push the conversation out of my mind for now. But the tension is still there, thick between Miras and me, just under the surface.
Dewey climbs in after me, immediately looking between us with raised eyebrows. "What happened? It's like I stepped into the middle of a civil war."
Miras finally turns the engine off, his voice dry. "You'll have to ask Cherish."
I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah, ask me. I've got nothing to explain."
Dewey shrugs, unbothered. "Great. So we're all just walking around with unspoken feelings, then? Awesome."
Miras glances at him, his expression still tense. "I wouldn't push it, Dewey."
"Yeah, yeah." Dewey leans back, looking like he's thoroughly amused by the whole situation. "Just don't kill each other on the ride home, okay?"
I cross my arms, staring out the window again, letting the quiet roll back over me. Miras doesn't look at me. Dewey doesn't seem to care. And for some reason, that makes everything feel even worse.
The moment we step through the front doors, I let out a long breath and drop my bag onto the floor with a dramatic thud.
"Home, sweet home," Dewey sighs, stretching his arms over his head.
"You mean my home," I mutter.
Dewey claps his hands together. "Alright, I'm gonna go collapse somewhere. If anyone needs me, don't."
"Bet you he's asleep in under five minutes," I say.
"Three," Miras counters.
We share a smirk before I grab my bag off the floor. "I should probably—" I motion vaguely toward the stairs, meaning to escape before Miras starts harping on me again.
But before I can move, he steps in front of me. "Hey."
I pause. "Yeah?"
Miras watches me for a second, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he simply says, "Don't disappear in your head too much, alright? I'm sorry about earlier."
"Yeah," I smile. "Me too."
The door to my room creaks as I push it open. I don't bother turning on the lights, the faint glow from the streetlight outside is enough to fill the space. I drop my bag on the floor and collapse onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My mind's still racing, bouncing between thoughts, memories, and that weird, tight feeling in my chest that won't go away.
It's quiet. Too quiet.
And I know Miras is still downstairs, probably waiting for me to make some move, some grand gesture to let him back in. But I can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I pull the blanket up, wrapping myself in its warmth, trying to feel the comfort of something normal for once. But all I can hear is the hum of the world around me, the distant sounds of the chaos we're all barely holding together.
I barely hear the door creak open, the soft shuffle of footsteps across the room, and the familiar scent of lavender and warmth that always seems to linger around Aunt Nayley. She stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the hallway light, watching me like she's been standing there forever.
I don't say anything, just close my eyes, pretending I didn't hear her. I can feel her gaze on me, steady and knowing, and I know what this is about.
"You're not going to get away with it that easily," Aunt Nayley says, her voice gentle but firm.
I groan inwardly, but it comes out as a sharp exhale. "I'm fine," I mutter, already knowing where this conversation is headed.
She steps inside, closing the door behind her. There's no avoiding it now. "Cherish, we need to talk about the voice in your head."
I freeze. That voice—the one that isn't mine, that doesn't feel like me—it's been getting louder. I've been fighting it, pushing it away, but every time I try to breathe, it's there, just beneath the surface, whispering things I can't ignore.
I turn my head, but I don't meet her eyes. "It's nothing. Just… just some stress. I'm fine."
"Stress huh? Is that why you and Miras go from romantically sparring with each other one day and hardly talk the next?" She looks at me, one eyebrow raised, but she doesn't say anything right away. I can feel the tension between us.
"Why is Miras acting weird?" I ask, my words tumbling out before I can stop them. "He's been distant. Ever since we... since I... I don't even know what's happening. And then there's Nakita. What is he not telling me about her?"
Aunt Nayley's expression softens, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—hesitation. She crosses the room and sits beside me, letting out a slow breath. "Cherish," she starts, her voice calm but serious, "there's a lot going on with Miras. More than you realize."
I bite my lip, frustration bubbling up again. "What do you mean? What about Nakita?"
Aunt Nayley's gaze flicks away for a moment, her hand coming to rest on her lap. "Nakita... She's part of Miras's past. A part of him he doesn't like to talk about. She was... important to him for a time. But it's complicated, Cherish."
"Why won't he tell me? We got through it once before, didn't we?"
Aunt Nayley continues, her voice low. "Miras has his reasons for keeping her a secret, but it's not because he doesn't care about you. It's just... harder for him to face. He's trying to protect you."
I feel my stomach churn. I want to ask more—so much more—but the weight of her words settles heavily on me. "So... he's pushing me away because of her?"
"I think it's an unintended consequence," aunt Nayley cradles my hand in hers. "Miras is trying to ease you back into the things you don't remember. Nakita wants to hurt him—and she wants to hurt you. She's made it clear to him that if makes any wrong move, she'll tell you everything he's trying to protect you from—truth or otherwise."
"He said that—she threatened him?"
Aunt Nayley nodded slowly, "but that's something him and I can figure out another time. You promised me sweetie, to not shut me out, to keep me updated—so spill."
I shift in my bed, trying to decide how much I want to share with her.
"It taunts me," I admit. "I feel like she knows what I don't remember. She knows Miras better than I do and we both know it." I lean back against the pillows. "What if I'm not who Miras thinks I am?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "What if he's only seeing what he wants to see, not who I really am?"
Aunt Nayley's gaze softens further, and she reaches out to place a hand on my arm, her touch warm and grounding. "Miras sees you for who you are, Cherish. All of you. The good, the bad, the messy. He's not looking for perfection. He's looking for you. And that's why he's sticking around, even when things get hard. Even when he's scared. Because he knows who you are underneath all this chaos. And he's not walking away. Not now, not ever."
I close my eyes, her words weaving around me like a soft blanket, the weight of them both comforting and terrifying.
Aunt Nayley leans in a little closer, her eyes soft with understanding. "You don't need to be perfect, sweetie. You just need to be honest. With yourself. With Miras. And with the people who care about you. That's the first step. And I promise you, the rest will come with time."
Time. I'm not sure I have time.
***
I shouldn't be here.
The med bay is too quiet, too still, like the walls are holding their breath, waiting to catch me in the act. The scent of antiseptic stings my nose as I slip inside, closing the door behind me with careful, trembling fingers.
Pathetic.
The voice slithers through my skull, dark and amused. I clench my jaw and move forward, my boots soundless against the tile. I know where they keep the medication. I've been here enough times to memorize the layout—the supply cabinets, the locked storage, the rolling carts stocked with the basics. My hands shake as I start searching, pushing past bottles of painkillers and antibiotics, my breathing too fast, too loud.
You really think this will help? The voice hums, almost delighted. How desperate. How sad.
I grit my teeth, forcing my hands to stay steady as I flip through the labels. I don't have time to doubt myself. I just need something—anything—to shut it up. My fingers close around a bottle, and I drag it into the light.
Antipsychotics.
My stomach clenches. For a moment, I just stare at the bottle, fingers tight around the plastic. This has to work. It has to. Because if it doesn't—
The voice chuckles, curling in the back of my mind like smoke. You really believe a few pills will make me disappear? Oh, Cherish. You're adorable.
My grip tightens. "Shut up," I whisper.
The cabinets glint with my reflection, and I barely recognize the girl staring back. Wide, panicked eyes. Shadows carved deep into my skin. I look exactly how I feel—like I'm unraveling. Like I don't know what's real anymore.
The voice sighs, mockingly sweet. Face it. You can drown yourself in medicine, and I'll still be here.
A sound freezes me in place.
Footsteps.
Shit.
I shove the bottle into my pocket and whirl toward the door. My pulse slams against my ribs. If they catch me here, if they see me like this—
The door handle turns.
Panic kicks in, sharp and electric. I move before I can think, dropping into a crouch and slipping behind the nearest supply cart just as the door creaks open. My breath locks in my throat.
A pair of boots step inside, pausing just past the threshold. A long exhale follows, like whoever it is is already exhausted just by being here.
You're a coward, the voice taunts. Hiding like a child. Running like you always do.
I ignore it, pressing myself lower, barely daring to breathe. The room is too small. If they take one more step, if they turn their head just slightly—
Cabinets click open. A rustling sound follows. Whoever it is, they're looking for something too.
I inch backward, moving on instinct, fingers brushing the edge of the cart. My body is tight, coiled, waiting for the right moment.
The person sighs. Then, finally, finally, they step away, reaching for something deeper in the cabinets.
Now.
I push off the ground and move, silent and quick. The door is still slightly open. I slip through the gap and out into the hallway, heart hammering so hard it drowns out everything else.
I don't stop moving. Not until I'm far enough away that I can breathe again.
Only then do I press a hand against my pocket, feeling the hard shape of the stolen bottle.
What now? the voice hums, amused. Think this is the part where you win?
I swallow hard, my throat tight. No, I don't think I've won anything.
Not yet.
I slip into my room and shut the door behind me, my back pressed against the wood as I try to steady my breathing. My heart is still racing, the bottle in my pocket burning against my skin like a brand.
Well, that was thrilling, the voice muses, smooth and amused. Should we do it again? Maybe next time, you'll actually get caught.
My fingers dig into my palms. "Shut up."
I push off the door and stride toward my bed, yanking the bottle from my pocket with shaking hands. The label blurs in the dim light, but I don't care. I twist off the cap and shake a few pills into my palm.
Oh, look at you. So bold. So reckless. The voice purrs, curling like smoke at the back of my mind. Do you really think this will work?
"I think you need to learn when to quit."
I toss the pills into my mouth, swallowing them dry. The bitter taste clings to my tongue, but I don't stop. I grab a few more, feel the smooth weight of them against my fingertips. If one dose is supposed to help, then maybe more will shut it up completely.
The voice laughs, low and mocking. You really think you're in control, don't you?
I throw back another handful.
Silence.
For the first time in days, my head is quiet.
I exhale, pressing my hands against my face, fingers trembling. Maybe this will work. Maybe I'll finally get some peace—
Then the room tilts.
A sickening wave of dizziness crashes into me, sending me reeling back onto the bed. My stomach twists violently, nausea clawing its way up my throat. The walls stretch, pull, contract, the ceiling suddenly too far away and too close all at once.
Oh, the voice whispers, almost delighted. Now this is interesting.
I clutch at my sheets, my body cold and burning all at once. My chest is tight. My limbs feel disconnected from me, like I'm floating, like I've been untethered from my own skin. My heart is pounding too fast, too fast.
I try to move. My fingers won't respond.
The voice hums. What's the matter, Cherish? Not feeling so powerful anymore?
I squeeze my eyes shut. My breathing is shallow. The weight in my chest is getting heavier. The edges of my vision blur. I think I messed up.
No. I know I messed up.
I don't know how many hours it's been. All I know is that I can't move—can't breathe.
I feel it before I fully understand it—this heavy, crushing weight pressing down on me, trapping me inside my own body. I try to move, but my limbs won't respond. My fingers twitch uselessly against fabric. My head is foggy, thick with something heavy and slow, like I've been stuffed full of cotton.
And then—my chest lurches.
I can't breathe.
A wet, choking sound tears from my throat. My body jerks, but I can't control it. Something is clogging my airways, burning its way up my throat, spilling from my mouth. My stomach clenches, but I can't turn my head.
I'm drowning.
No, no, no—
Something grips my shoulders. I'm yanked onto my side, and suddenly the weight shifts. My mouth opens, and something hot and sour spills out of me. My throat burns. My head is spinning.
I hear a voice.
Low, rough, frantic. Familiar.
"Come on, wake up. You have to wake up."
Miras.
I try to focus on him, but everything is tilting, stretching. The world is moving too fast and too slow at the same time. I want to tell him that I can't breathe, that something is wrong, but my mouth won't work.
A hand grips my jaw. Fingers press into my mouth. I gag, my body heaving again. My stomach clenches violently, and something else comes up, spilling onto fabric.
"That's it. Come on, Cherish."
I want to tell him to stop. I want to push him away, but I can't even lift my arms. Everything is slipping.
Then—warmth.
Strong arms wrap around me, lifting me up. My head lolls against something solid, the scent of steel and sweat filling my nose. Miras. He's carrying me.
His heartbeat pounds against my cheek, fast and wild.
I try to hold onto it, to focus on it.
But everything is fading.
Everything is heavy.
My limbs, my head, my thoughts—dragging me down, sinking me deeper into the black. I try to move, but my body won't listen. I try to speak, but my lips don't form words.
There's a voice.
Muffled, frantic. Close.
Then—pressure. Arms around me, holding me, carrying me. The world shifts and moves, but I can't follow it. I'm weightless and drowning at the same time.
Then light. Noise.
Aunt Nayley.
I don't need to open my eyes to know it's her. I can feel the warmth of her hands on my skin, hear the sharpness in her voice as she barks something at Miras.
Miras.
His voice is rough, cracking at the edges. I thought she—
He stops, like he can't say the rest.
Oh.
A slow, sick realization settles in my chest.
He thinks I tried to kill myself.
The thought is distant, floating somewhere just outside my grasp, but it stabs through the haze anyway. I want to tell him—no, no, that's not what this was—but is that even true?
I just wanted the voice to stop. I just wanted peace. But now—
Now everything is worse.
My fingers twitch. A sound—small, hoarse—slips from my throat.
Suddenly, warmth engulfs my hand.
"I got you."
Miras.
His voice is thick, uneven, but there. Close.
"I got you, okay?"
I try to squeeze his hand back. I don't know if I actually do.
The world shifts in and out, slipping between sharp clarity and thick, drowning fog. I catch pieces of voices, fragments of movement. Aunt Nayley's steady hands checking my pulse, the cool press of a damp cloth against my forehead.
And Miras—always near.
I can feel him even when I can't see him. The weight of his presence, the roughness in his voice when he murmurs something I can't quite catch.
Then—another voice.
Louder. Harsher.
Imani.
His voice cuts through the haze like a blade. I can't tell what he's saying, only that he's furious.
And Miras—Miras snaps back.
"I didn't know it was this bad, Imani!" His voice is raw, frayed at the edges. "You think I would've just let this happen if I knew?"
"You knew something was wrong!" Imani roars. "She came to you—told you she was hearing voices—and you didn't tell me?"
Silence.
The kind that weighs heavy, that makes it hard to breathe.
Then, softer, but no less sharp—
"She trusted me," Miras says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I—I thought I could handle it."
A harsh scoff from Imani. "Handle it? Handle it? Miras, she almost died choking on her own vomit! You call that handling it?"
Miras doesn't answer.
I want to say something. I want to move, to sit up, to tell them to stop—please, just stop—but my body is still sluggish, too weak to do anything but exist.
"I should've known you'd pull this shit." Imani's voice is shaking now, just barely holding back his rage. "You always think you know better, that you can do everything on your own. But this?" A sharp exhale. "This isn't about you. This is about Cherish. And you almost lost her because you thought you could keep secrets."
Another silence. This one worse than the last.
Then, Miras, barely audible:
"I already thought I did lose her."
Something clenches in my chest.
The silence stretches. Imani exhales sharply, like he's trying to calm himself down. When he speaks again, his voice is steadier, but the edge is still there.
"We're getting her real help," he says, firm, absolute. "No more hiding. No more secrets."
Footsteps. A door creaking open. Then—hesitation.
Miras again. Quiet, wrecked.
"…Is she gonna be okay?"
Imani exhales.
"I don't know."
The door clicks shut.
I can feel it before I even realize what's happening—something cold pressing into my throat, slipping past my lips, and I can't move. My body doesn't listen, doesn't respond to my panic. My arms are heavy, like they're made of lead, and I can't push him away.
The taste hits me like a wave of dirt and ash, thick and bitter, clawing its way down my throat. I gag, choking on the heavy substance that feels like it's burning its way through my insides. My body jerks, trying to fight it, but all I can do is gasp and sputter.
"Come on, Cherish, breathe," Imani's voice is rough, strained, as he forces more of the charcoal down my throat. His hands are so strong, gripping my jaw, pressing me back against him like I'm some kind of ragdoll. "You have to fight this."
I can't breathe. The charcoal is suffocating, clogging my chest, but I can't get it out. My stomach lurches, convulses with the desperation of it all, and I cough, feeling something sharp scrape at the back of my throat. Everything inside me wants to revolt, to scream and thrash, but I can't even find the strength to move.
"Please, Cherish," Imani's voice cracks, low and pleading. "Come on."
I feel my body, my consciousness, slipping away again, drowning under the weight of it all. Everything is foggy—my thoughts, my breath, my senses. I'm drowning in it. I can't hold onto anything anymore.
But then—there's warmth.
Imani pulls me closer, cradles me against his chest, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart, pounding erratically against me. His hands are everywhere, trying to steady me, to keep me here, but everything is sinking, and I can't hold on.
I try. I try so hard to squeeze his hand back, but my fingers don't obey. They twitch, they shake, but I can't make them move.
"I'm here," he whispers, so quietly I almost don't hear it. But it's there. He's here. "I got you. I got you."
I want to say something. I want to tell him I'm not giving up, that I'm still fighting. But I can't find the words. My mouth is heavy. Everything is heavy.
The first thing I notice is the weight. It's like something's pressing down on my chest, but it's not just physical—it's the weight of everything I can't remember, everything I've lost in those moments. My body is sluggish, heavy, like I've been dragged through the mud, but my mind is sharper, pulling itself out of the fog, clawing its way back to something resembling clarity.
I open my eyes slowly, squinting against the dim light, and I see Miras first. He's right there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, like he's afraid of what might happen if he lets go. He looks… exhausted. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he hasn't slept, and there's something in his gaze—something that makes my stomach twist with guilt.
I try to sit up, but my body protests, muscles weak and trembling under me. I gasp for air, the dryness in my throat making every breath feel like a struggle, but I manage to push myself up just a little.
"Miras…" My voice is barely a whisper, but I can feel the desperation in my words. I try to push myself up, but my body protests, trembling under the effort. He's sitting there, at the edge of the bed, his hands clenched tightly in front of him. He's not looking at me, not really—not like he used to. His gaze is cold, distant, like there's a wall between us now.
"You're awake," he says, but his voice is flat, not the relief I expected, not the familiar warmth I used to feel when he looked at me. Instead, there's a brittle edge to his words, like he's holding himself back from something more volatile. "I thought I lost you."
"I didn't… I didn't try to—" I stop myself, swallowing hard. The words feel wrong, but they need to be said. I need him to hear it. "I didn't try to kill myself, Miras."
His eyes snap to mine, and for the briefest moment, I see the raw emotion flicker in them—fear, panic, confusion. But it's gone in a flash, replaced by something sharper, colder. He leans forward, fists tightening.
"You were choking," he says, his voice rougher now, but there's a tightness to it, like he's holding something back. "You were dying, Cherish. And I don't—" He stops himself, and I can see the struggle in his face, the anger building behind his eyes. "I thought I lost you."
I try to sit up a little more, forcing myself to focus. "I wasn't trying to end things, Miras," I say, my voice a little stronger now. "I swear to you, I just—I just wanted the noise to stop. The voices. The confusion."
His jaw tightens, his fists clenching harder. The muscles in his neck flex as he leans in closer, his voice low but sharp. "The voices?" He scoffs, but it's a harsh, bitter sound. "How long were you going to keep that from me, huh? How long were you going to hide this? You told me things were getting bad, but you didn't tell me how bad, Cherish." He stands up, suddenly, the anger rising in him like a storm that can't be contained. "You think you can just keep things from me like this? Like I'm some fucking idiot?"
I feel my stomach drop. I open my mouth to say something, but the words get caught in my throat. He's right. I've been hiding it. I thought I could handle it on my own, thought I could fix it. But I couldn't.
"Miras…" I try again, reaching for him, but he takes a step back, his whole body rigid with tension. His hands are shaking now, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"You didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth, Cherish," he spits, voice rising. "You didn't trust anyone. And now look at you. Look what happened." He throws his hands up, frustration boiling over. "You almost died, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it because I wasn't there when you needed me. Why? Because you didn't think it was bad enough to tell me?"
I swallow hard, the words like knives in my chest. It's not just anger in his voice. It's hurt. His hurt. And it cuts deeper than anything else.
"I didn't know how to tell you," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I didn't know how to explain it. I didn't know how to make you understand."
"Then fucking try harder!" His voice is a shout now, his face contorted with frustration. "Try harder, Cherish! Try harder not to destroy yourself because you can't handle the shit going on inside your head!"
"I didn't—" My voice cracks, but I force myself to speak, to make him understand. "Miras, I swear, I didn't—"
"Don't you dare tell me you didn't try to kill yourself!" The words explode from his mouth, his face twisting with rage.
I flinch back as if his words physically hurt, but I can't take them back. The truth stings, but it's not my truth. It can't be. I wasn't trying to die. I just wanted the noise to stop. The voices. The confusion.
"I didn't—I didn't want to die, Miras," I choke out, my hands shaking as I reach for him, but he takes another step back, pulling away like I'm the one who's dangerous. "I just—I just wanted peace. I didn't know what else to do."
"Peace?" He laughs, but it's a bitter, hollow sound. "You think that's peace? That was peace to you? Almost choking on your own fucking vomit? You think I don't care? You think I can just pretend it's okay when you're doing shit like this?"
His words hit like blows, each one knocking the wind out of me. My throat tightens, and I can't speak anymore—not when it feels like everything is falling apart, like he's falling away from me. Like I'm falling away from him.
"Miras, please…" I barely whisper, but my voice is so small now, so weak. "Please listen…"
But he doesn't listen. He steps closer again, his eyes wild with frustration, and I feel the fear creeping in. This isn't just anger. This is something deeper, something that feels like he's losing control, and I can't keep up with it anymore. My heart races, and my breath comes too fast.
Then, before I can say another word, the door swings open, and Aunt Nayley steps into the room like a storm herself. Her eyes are sharp, and the moment she sees the scene in front of her, she doesn't hesitate.
"Miras," she snaps, her voice low but firm. It's a command, not a request, and it cuts through the tension in the room like a knife. "That's enough."
Miras doesn't stop. He turns to face her, but the anger in his eyes doesn't soften. "She almost—she—" He chokes on his words, his face flushed with frustration, but Aunt Nayley doesn't let him finish.
"I said enough," she repeats, her voice louder this time, no room for argument. She strides over to him, her hands grabbing his arm and pulling him back, away from me. She doesn't care that he's bigger, stronger—she's not afraid. "You're not doing this."
Miras jerks back as if he's about to fight her off, his chest heaving with every breath, but Aunt Nayley doesn't let go. She holds him firm, her gaze locked on his like she's daring him to argue. The room feels smaller with every passing second, like I'm suffocating again, but this time it's not just my body. It's everything between us.
"You're not yelling at her," Aunt Nayley says, her voice hard and unforgiving. "Not like this. Not when she's trying to tell you the truth."
Miras opens his mouth, but Aunt Nayley's grip tightens. "Don't," she warns, her voice low and steady. "You want to help her? Then you listen. You don't shout. You don't make her feel worse than she already does. Got it?"
Miras doesn't say anything. He stands there, his eyes wild, but he doesn't fight back. He doesn't move. Aunt Nayley gives him one last push, forcing him toward the door.
"I'm going to talk to her," she says firmly, her voice softening only slightly as she looks at me. "You can't help her when you're like this."
Miras doesn't argue. He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes unreadable, like he's trying to process everything that just happened. But then he finally turns, walking out of the room without another word.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm left in the sudden quiet. I'm shaking. My heart is still racing, and the fear lingers in my chest, but this time, it's not just the voices in my head. It's the realization that the person I've always counted on—Miras—isn't the same anymore. And for the first time, I'm terrified of him.
Aunt Nayley doesn't waste any time. She moves toward me quickly, sitting down on the bed beside me and placing a steady hand on my arm.
"It's okay," she says, her voice soft but filled with an authority that makes the words stick. "It's okay. He's just scared, Cherish. He didn't know how to handle it."
I crumble against her, my body shaking with the force of it. I've been holding everything back for so long—everything that's been eating away at me—and now, with Miras gone, the floodgates open. The tears come too fast, too hard, and I can't stop them.
"I didn't mean it," I gasp, my voice barely a whisper, broken and raw. "I didn't want this. I didn't want to hurt anyone."
Aunt Nayley pulls me closer, her hands gentle but firm on my back as she strokes my hair, murmuring soft words of comfort. I can feel the heat of her breath as she presses her cheek to the top of my head, her body warm and steady beneath mine.
"You don't have to explain," she says, her voice steady, though I can hear the concern underneath it. "You don't have to apologize. You're not the one who needs forgiveness here."
But I can't stop. The guilt gnaws at me, sharp and relentless. "I'm so sorry," I sob, my voice cracking. "I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for Miras to—" I can't even finish the sentence. The image of Miras' face, his anger, his hurt, flashes in my mind and it cuts through me like a knife. "I didn't want to make him hate me. I just wanted the voices to stop."
Aunt Nayley pulls back just enough to cup my face in her hands, her eyes meeting mine with a fierce tenderness that makes something inside me crack open even further. Her thumbs brush away the tears on my cheeks, and I feel like I'm falling apart at the seams.
"Cherish," she says, her voice low, but unwavering. "I believe you. You didn't do this to hurt anyone. You didn't want to die, and you didn't want to hurt Miras." She pauses, her gaze softening as she exhales slowly. "But you've got to stop blaming yourself. This—what's happening to you—it's not your fault. And Miras," she says, her voice growing quieter but still firm, "he doesn't hate you. He's scared. He's just as scared as you are."
Aunt Nayley doesn't leave my side. She keeps an arm wrapped around me even after my sobs quiet into shaky, uneven breaths. The warmth of her presence keeps me tethered, keeps me from slipping back into the dark. But it doesn't stop the cold, empty space settling in my chest.
Because Miras isn't here.
I know he's somewhere in the house. I can feel it, the weight of his absence heavier than if he were truly gone. But he's not in this room. Not with me. And that thought is louder than anything else.
I barely register when my father and Imani enter, their voices hushed at first, careful. Dewey follows, hands stuffed in his pockets, shifting from foot to foot like he doesn't want to be here.
I force myself to sit up straighter, but it takes more effort than it should. My body is still weak, still recovering, but it's nothing compared to the exhaustion in my mind.
Imani is the first to speak. "The antipsychotics," he starts, his voice measured but firm, "are a very powerful drug. When taken for the first few weeks, they're taken at 5 milligrams or less per day. You took," Imani glances at my chart, going over my tox screen. "Closed to two-hundred, in one sitting."
I swallow hard. The taste of charcoal still lingers at the back of my throat, bitter and heavy.
"You overdosed," my father continues, his tone gentler than I expect, but there's no mistaking the way it weighs on him.
I stare at my hands. My fingers twitch against the fabric of the blanket, restless, searching for something to ground me. "I just needed her to stop. I wanted to show her that she couldn't control me."
The room goes silent, Dewey looks at Imani and my father and then to aunt Nayley, "guys, we kind of have to tell her."
A pain rattles through my chest, "tell me what?"
Imani sighs, taking a step back like he knows whatever he's about to tell me is about to make me lose it. "The whole reason why we whipped your memory in the first place, was because you had a different personality when you went brain dead after a mission. She had your memories, but she wasn't you, didn't want to be you. She described you like you were dead—and that this was the new Cherish now. We tried to wait, but she was violent, made decisions that hurt you, she attacked us—she was dangerous. When we tried to reset you, something went wrong. Your brain started creating multiple personalities, that were all fighting for control. Your brain started splitting apart, and whipping your memory was our last ditch effort to save you. We figured if you couldn't remember the events leading up to what caused the personality change, you wouldn't have the personalities. But she's still there."
The words don't make sense at first. They hang in the air, weightless, empty, like a sentence spoken in a language I don't understand. My ears hear them, but my brain refuses to process.
I stare at Imani, my breath slowing, my fingers curling tighter into the blanket beneath me. She's still there.
I shake my head. "No." The word feels small, fragile. "That's not—That doesn't—"
"We didn't know if it would work," my father says, his voice calmer, measured, but I can hear the guilt woven beneath it. "We were desperate, Cherish. We couldn't reach you. And the person who took over—she wasn't you."
"But she had my memories?" My voice shakes. I can barely get the words out. "How could she not be me?"
"She didn't want to be you," Imani says, voice tight. "She spoke about you in past tense, like you were gone. Like she had taken over, and we just had to deal with it."
I shake my head again, harder this time, like I can shake away the truth of what they're telling me. But I remember now. I remember that feeling, that slipping, the way I was losing time, losing control. The way it felt like I was drowning inside my own mind.
And the voices—
The flickers of personalities fighting inside me—
It wasn't just my imagination.
The pain rattles through my chest, my breath coming short, fast.
"What—what was she like?" I whisper, afraid of the answer.
No one speaks for a long time.
Then Dewey, of all people, is the one to answer. "She was cruel."
The air leaves my lungs.
"She wasn't just violent," he continues. "She—She liked breaking things. Breaking people. We tried to talk to her, to see if there was anything left of you in there, but every time we got close, she'd laugh. She'd tell us you weren't coming back."
Something inside me cracks. "No." My voice is barely audible.
"She called you weak," Imani adds, watching me carefully. "She said you were the reason you died. That she was stronger. That she was meant to exist, not you."
I press my hands to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. My heart is pounding so loudly I can barely hear them anymore.
"She's still there," Imani says, his voice a fraction softer, but no less certain. "And I think you already knew that."
I don't answer. Because I do know. I've felt her, clawing at the edges of my mind, laughing in the dark, waiting for the moment I slip up.
And suddenly, I can't breathe.
The walls feel too close. The air too thick. My skin too tight.
This isn't real. This can't be real.
I wrap my arms around myself, curling inward, trying to hold myself together. But it doesn't feel like enough. It will never be enough.
"Cherish." Aunt Nayley's voice is soft, grounding, but I flinch away when she tries to touch me. I don't mean to, but I do.
Because what if she's right?
What if I'm not really me? What if I am her?
What if I'm not supposed to exist at all?
Aunt Nayley doesn't pull away. Even when I flinch, even when I recoil like I can't stand the weight of my own skin, she stays. Her hand rests on the edge of the bed, close but not touching, giving me space but refusing to let me disappear.
I try to breathe, but my chest is too tight. My lungs feel like they've collapsed under the weight of everything they just told me.
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into my skin, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps.
I hear her.
The other me.
A whisper in the back of my mind, curling around my thoughts like smoke, like poison. They shouldn't have told you.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Go away.
They're afraid of you.
"Stop," I whisper. My voice is hoarse, cracking. No one in the room speaks. No one moves.
But she does.
I feel her like a shadow behind my ribs, pressing against the inside of my skull.
They don't trust you. Miras doesn't trust you. That's why he's not here.
A shudder racks through me.
She's right, isn't she?
Miras isn't here.
I force my eyes open, staring at Imani, at my father, at Dewey, at Aunt Nayley—at all the people who made this decision for me. "You wiped my memory," I say, my voice shaking, "because you were afraid of me."
No one denies it.
Imani just sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "We did it because we wanted you back."
I let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "And yet here we are. She's still here. And you lied to me. All of you."
Aunt Nayley finally reaches for my hand, her grip warm, steady. "We were trying to protect you."
I yank my hand away. "Protect me from what? Myself?"
No one answers.
The silence is deafening.
I press my knuckles against my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut again. The whisper in my head is growing louder, curling sweetly around my thoughts.
You don't need them.
I grit my teeth. "I—I'm not her." I don't know if I'm saying it to them or to myself.
Dewey shifts uncomfortably. "I mean…" He hesitates. "You're mostly not her."
"Dewey," Imani warns.
"No, I mean—" Dewey gestures vaguely at me. "She is Cherish, right? Like, the real Cherish. But sometimes… she isn't."
I feel sick.
My father speaks up, his voice calmer, more measured than the others. "The wipe wasn't perfect. We knew it wouldn't be. But we thought—" He exhales. "We hoped that if you didn't remember, she wouldn't either."
I shake my head, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to shed. "So what? What now? You just—what, keep resetting me? Until I finally disappear?"
Aunt Nayley's hand tightens around mine again. "No. Never."
But I don't believe her. Not really.
Because if they had to choose—if it was between her and me—
I don't know if I'd even choose myself.
***
The nausea hits first. A deep, twisting sickness that coils in my stomach and refuses to let go. It burns its way up my throat, clawing, suffocating. My whole body feels wrong—too heavy, too hot, like I'm trapped inside my own skin with no way out.
I clutch at the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric, trying to ground myself, but the dizziness pulls me under anyway. My stomach clenches violently, and I barely manage to twist to the side before I retch into the bucket Aunt Nayley shoved next to the bed.
The sound is awful—wet, ragged, raw. The charcoal is still in my system, and it's dragging everything out with it, scraping its way up my throat like shards of glass. I choke, gasping for air, but my body won't stop convulsing. It's like every nerve is on fire, every inch of me rejecting itself.
Aunt Nayley is there in an instant, her hand firm against my back, rubbing slow circles even as my body shakes. "I've got you," she murmurs, her voice steady, even though I can hear the worry beneath it. "Just breathe, sweetheart. Let it pass."
I want to tell her I can't. That it won't stop, that it feels like I'm dying all over again. But the words won't come. Only another wave of nausea, another deep, painful heave that leaves my throat raw and my limbs trembling.
Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I suck in a sharp breath, trying to steady myself, but my body feels like it's splitting apart. And maybe it is. Maybe this is just another reminder that I don't belong in it at all.
Because the truth is, I don't know who I am anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the voices don't stop.
They don't trust you.
You weren't supposed to come back.
Miras isn't here.
I gasp, clutching at my chest, feeling my own nails dig into my skin. I don't know if the pain is real or imagined, but it keeps me here. Keeps me from slipping completely.
"Cherish." Aunt Nayley's voice is firmer now, cutting through the haze. "Look at me."
I don't want to.
I can't.
But she cups my face gently, tilting my head toward her, and I don't have the strength to resist.
Her expression is warm, steady—filled with something close to love. But it's shadowed with something else, too. Worry. Fear.
She's afraid for me.
Not of me.
And somehow, that makes the tears spill over. A broken sob rips from my throat before I can stop it, and suddenly I'm crying, full-body shaking, sucking in ragged breaths that don't feel like enough.
Aunt Nayley doesn't hesitate. She pulls me into her arms, holding me like she's afraid I'll slip through her fingers. "I've got you," she whispers against my hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
I clutch onto her like a lifeline, because right now, she's the only thing keeping me together.
But even as I cling to her warmth, as she whispers reassurances I can't fully believe—
I know what's missing.
Miras.
He still isn't here.
And I don't know if he's ever coming back.
I don't know how long Aunt Nayley holds me. Time doesn't feel real anymore. It stretches and bends, slipping between my fingers like water. My body is still trembling, my stomach raw from everything I've thrown up, but the shaking feels deeper than that—like something inside me has fractured, and no amount of warmth or gentle reassurances can piece it back together.
Aunt Nayley doesn't let go, though. Even when my sobs fade into quiet, uneven breaths, even when my body feels too heavy to move, she keeps holding me, rubbing slow, steady circles against my back. Like she knows that the second she lets go, I'll fall apart all over again.
But I can't stay like this.
I shift slightly, wiping at my face with the back of my sleeve. My arms feel weak, my fingers stiff, but at least they're mine. At least I'm still here.
For now.
Aunt Nayley pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes soft but searching. "You with me, sweetheart?"
I nod, even though I don't know if it's true.
Her brows knit together, but before she can say anything, the door creaks open.
I stiffen automatically, my breath catching in my throat. For a second—just a second—I think it might be him.
But it's just my father. Imani follows a second later, a glass of water in one hand, a towel draped over his shoulder like he's ready to deal with the mess I've made of myself. Dewey is behind them, lingering in the doorway, but his expression is unreadable.
No Miras.
Of course not.
I drop my gaze to my lap, gripping the blanket so tightly my knuckles ache. I don't know why I thought he'd come.
Aunt Nayley doesn't move away from me, but she does glance at the others, like she's bracing for whatever comes next.
My father clears his throat. "How are you feeling?"
I let out a shaky breath, still not looking at him. "Like I got hit by a train."
There's a beat of silence, and then Imani huffs a quiet, humorless laugh. "Sounds about right."
He hands me the glass of water, and I take it with unsteady fingers, sipping it slowly. It's cool against my throat, washing away some of the burning ache, but it doesn't do anything for the weight pressing against my chest.
"Your body's still recovering," my father says, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. He looks tired. More tired than I've ever seen him. "It's going to take time."
I nod absently, but my thoughts are still spinning, circling around one thing. One person.
I take a slow breath, forcing myself to ask, "Where's Miras?"
Silence.
The air in the room shifts, heavy with something unsaid.
I look up. Dewey shifts uncomfortably. Imani tenses. My father rubs a hand over his jaw, looking at anything but me.
My stomach sinks.
"Where is he?" I ask again, my voice quieter this time.
Imani exhales sharply. "He—" He hesitates, like he's trying to find the right words. "He needed space."
Something sharp cuts through me. "Space."
"He's—" Dewey scratches at the back of his neck. "He's mad."
I knew that already. I felt it, when he was yelling at me. When Aunt Nayley had to pull him away. But hearing it out loud makes it feel worse. More real.
"He's not just mad," I say, my throat tight. "He's gone."
No one denies it.
My father looks tired. Older. The lines in his face seem deeper now, like he's been carrying this weight for a long time. "We don't know," he finally says.
I blink. "What?"
Imani exhales through his nose. "We don't know where he went, Cherish. He left with no comms, no tracker. He didn't want to be found."
A slow, hollow feeling spreads through my chest.
Miras—who always made sure I knew where he was, who never left me alone for too long, who stayed even when he shouldn't have—just disappeared.
And no one stopped him.
No one tried to stop him.
I let out a shaky breath, my pulse hammering. "You're telling me he just left? And no one thought to go after him?"
"What do you want us to do, Cherish?" Imani's voice is tight, like he's barely holding back his own frustration. "Drag him back kicking and screaming? He didn't want to talk. He refused to talk. He needed space, and if we had forced him to stay, it would've made things worse."
I don't want to hear that. I can't hear that.
Because Miras doesn't just leave. He doesn't just walk away.
I shake my head again, my throat tightening. "He wouldn't—he wouldn't just leave me."
Dewey shifts uncomfortably. "Well… he kinda did."
I don't realize I'm shaking until Aunt Nayley squeezes my hand again, anchoring me before I can spiral. But it doesn't stop the ache, the suffocating weight pressing against my ribs.