Trigger warnings * mentions intense medical treatments without consent. Trauma. Family angst. Depression. Health issues. PTSD. Betrayal. Arguing.
I wake up to a silence that feels heavier than it should. My eyes are still blurry, but I can tell I'm not in the same place anymore. The harsh scent of antiseptic is gone, replaced by the familiar, muted smell of the room at home. But none of it comforts me. Not anymore.
I try to move, but my body protests, every fiber still aching from what just happened. I feel like I've been torn apart and stitched back together, not as I was, but as something weaker, something that couldn't fight its way out of the nightmare.
I can't remember much—just flashes. Pain. So much pain. My heart still races just thinking about it, and I can almost feel the remnants of it crawling under my skin. That endless ache, the scream that wouldn't escape, the helplessness.
But more than anything, I feel anger.
When I open my eyes fully, I see them.
Imani, my father, and Miras, all standing there, looking at me like I'm some fragile thing they're terrified of breaking. They want to talk. I know it. They want to explain. But I don't care. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear any of their excuses or their guilt. Not after what they did.
It takes everything in me to turn my head away from them, but I do it. I can't look at them right now. I can't face them. Not after what they put me through. My mind won't stop racing, the anger spiraling, growing stronger with each passing second. The betrayal stings too much. The thought that they'd do this to me, to break me like this for their own version of "saving me"—I can't even comprehend it.
I hear Miras's voice first, the soft, careful words he always uses when he's trying to reach me.
"Cherish, please—"
Miras's voice cracks from the corner of the room, but I don't turn to face him. I don't want to see the way he's looking at me, the way I know he's probably blaming himself for all of it.
"Cherish…" His voice falters, but I don't respond. I can't.
I hear him shuffle closer, like he's trying to find the right words, but I keep my eyes shut, pretending to sleep, even though I'm wide awake. His words would only make things worse. So, I remain silent.
Imani speaks next, his voice softer than usual. "We didn't have a choice, Cherish. You were… you were dying, and we couldn't let that happen."
But that's not it. It's not just about survival. It's the way they treated me, like a thing to be fixed instead of a person. It's the way they ignored my pain for their own version of what was right. They thought they knew what was best for me. But they didn't. They never did.
My chest tightens at the thought of it all, but I stay silent. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how badly I want to scream, I don't. Because the one thing they can't take from me now is my voice, my refusal to let them in.
Dad speaks too, but his words blend into the background. I can barely hear him over the deafening silence I've wrapped around myself. His tone is pleading, but I know better than to let that trick me.
I don't trust them. Not right now.
The room feels too full of tension, of unspoken words, of brokenness. I want to tear away from it, but I can't. They're still here, still waiting for me to break, to speak, to forgive. But I won't. Not yet. Not when the anger feels so raw, so justified.
I bury my head deeper into the pillow, as if it could shield me from the weight of their regret. If they want me to talk, to let them help me, they'll have to wait. I'm not ready. I'm not ready to forgive. And I'm not ready to trust them again.
Imani's voice cuts through the silence again, this time with a hint of something softer, something more gentle—almost like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. "Cherish," he begins, his tone heavy with the weight of what he's about to say, "the operation... it's been a success so far."
I don't respond, but I hear the quiet relief in his words. Success. What does that even mean? How can anything be considered a success when it came at the cost of everything I've been through? The pain, the fear... the loss of control.
He keeps going, like he's trying to make me understand, to make me hear him. "But there's still damage. Your heart... the constant flatlining, the trauma—it's taken a toll on you. You're lucky to be alive right now, Cherish. But it's going to take more time. It's going to take more care."
I don't look at him, don't move. He says I'm lucky to be alive, but I don't feel lucky. I don't feel anything but exhaustion and anger, two things I can't seem to escape. The heavy weight of betrayal keeps pushing down on me, and no matter how much I try to bury it, it's always there, just beneath the surface.
My heart—his words sting. Damaged. Like something that can be fixed. But I'm not sure I can ever fix what's been done to me, no matter how many times I heal physically. The damage they've done to my trust, to my sense of self, is something else entirely.
I hear him exhale softly, the way you do when you're trying to hold back tears or frustration. He's waiting for me to respond, but I can't. I'm too far gone—too deep in the anger and the hurt to let go of any of it.
"I know you're angry, Cherish," Imani says quietly, his voice betraying his own sadness. "And I get it. But you need to understand that we were doing everything we could to save you. We were trying to help."
I don't say anything. I don't look at him.
He doesn't push further, and I'm thankful for that. The silence stretches on, thick and suffocating, but it's the only thing I can stand right now.
And in the midst of it, my heart—my broken, damaged heart—keeps beating. Still alive, still here. But I'm not sure if I'm the same person who went into that operation. I'm not sure I can ever be that person again.
I don't answer. I don't even blink. The silence stretches between us like a canyon, vast and unbridgeable.
I can feel Imani waiting, hoping for something—some sign that I've heard him, that I'll listen. But I don't give him that.
Because I don't want to listen.
Because I don't trust them.
Because they strapped me down and forced me through hell.
Because no matter how much they say it was to save me, it doesn't change the fact that they made me suffer.
A deep sigh escapes him, and I can almost hear the exhaustion in it, like he's tired of fighting me, tired of my silence. "Cherish," he says, firmer now, but not unkind. "You don't have to talk to me. You don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to. But you do have to take care of yourself. If something feels wrong, if your chest hurts, if you can't breathe, you have to say something."
I stare at the ceiling, the weight of my own heartbeat thudding in my chest. Slower than it should be. Heavy. Off-rhythm.
I know something is wrong. I knew it the second I woke up. But I don't say anything.
Let them worry. Let them all worry.
I hear him shift, and then the scrape of the chair legs against the floor. Imani is getting up. "I'll give you some space," he murmurs, his voice unreadable. "But not forever, Cherish."
The room stays quiet for a while after Imani leaves. I breathe in the silence, letting it settle over me, pressing into my skin like a second weight on top of everything else.
Then, I hear it—soft, almost hesitant.
The shift of a chair. A quiet inhale.
Miras.
I don't have to look to know he's still here. I don't have to see him to feel the way his presence lingers in the air, like he's afraid to break whatever fragile, fraying thread is keeping me from completely unraveling.
I clench my fingers in the sheets, nails biting into the fabric. I want him gone. I want all of them gone.
But Miras doesn't leave.
Instead, he exhales slowly, like he's gathering himself, and then he speaks. "I know you don't want me here." His voice is raw, frayed at the edges. "But I'm staying."
I squeeze my eyes shut. Of course he is.
He doesn't say anything else for a while. He just sits there, unmoving, like he's waiting for me to react.
I don't.
I focus on the rhythm of my breathing, on the way my chest rises and falls, even though each inhale still feels wrong, like my heart is a beat too slow to catch up.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. I think he'll give up.
But then—
"I'm sorry."
Two words, barely more than a whisper, but they slice through me like a knife.
I don't want his apologies. I don't want him to sit here and act like sorry will fix anything.
I swallow the lump in my throat and stare at the ceiling, refusing to look at him. He doesn't deserve to see whatever's in my eyes right now.
"I know you're angry," he says, quieter now. "You should be."
I am.
"But I need you to know that if I had to do it all over again, I would." His voice wavers, like the weight of his own words is crushing him. "If it meant keeping you alive, I'd do it again, no matter how much you hate me for it."
My throat tightens. I want to throw the words back in his face, tell him that he doesn't get to decide what's best for me, that what he did—what all of them did—was a betrayal I can never forgive.
But my body betrays me first.
My chest seizes. My breath stutters.
A sharp, sudden pain blooms deep behind my ribs.
Miras is at my side in an instant, his hands hovering over me, unsure if he should touch me or if that'll only make it worse. "Cherish?" His voice is sharp, laced with panic. "Are you—?"
I gave him a look: I'm fine. Back off.
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way his jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
But he doesn't push.
He just stays.
Even though I don't want him to.
The silence stretches between us, tense and heavy. I think—hope—that he'll take the hint and leave, but of course, he doesn't.
Instead, he speaks again, softer this time. "You don't have to talk to me. You don't even have to look at me. But I'm not leaving."
He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, staring at his hands like they hold all the answers. His knuckles are scraped, raw, like he's been gripping onto something too tight. Maybe himself. Maybe me.
"I don't know what to do, Cherish," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
I press my nails into my palm, ignoring the dull sting of my still-healing skin.
Good. Let him feel lost. Let him feel helpless.
It's what I've felt this entire time.
I don't say anything.
The soft hum of the machines fills the room, a constant reminder that I'm still here. Still breathing. Still alive.
Even though I don't know how to feel about that yet.
I've barely moved all day. My body doesn't feel like my own, and my mind—my mind is worse. It won't shut up. It keeps replaying everything, over and over again, and every time I think I can push it away, another thought wedges itself into my brain like a blade.
Miras hasn't left. Not once.
He's quiet now, sitting near the foot of the bed, pretending not to watch me.
I hate that I notice. I hate that, deep down, I don't really mind.
There's a quiet knock at the door.
I don't answer.
Imani walks in anyway.
He stops at the edge of the bed, watching me carefully, like he's afraid I'll shatter if he pushes too hard. "How's the pain?"
I don't respond. I don't want to respond.
Miras glances between us, tense, like he's waiting for me to lash out
Imani sighs. "Cherish, I know you don't want to talk to me right now. I get it." His voice is level, unreadable. "But you need to eat something."
I don't move.
"I want you to try eating food, even with the tube. Same thing as before, drink, jello's, soup. It's important we try to adjust your body back to normal eating—"
I grit my teeth and look away.
I hear him set something down on the bedside table. A tray. The smell of soup fills the air—light, warm, something I probably would've liked if I weren't so damn angry.
"I'll be back later," he says, turning toward the door. "Eat."
I don't say anything.
I don't have to.
Miras does.
"She will."
My head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing.
He meets my gaze, steady but firm. "Even if I have to make her."
I don't move.
I won't.
I won't give him the satisfaction.
Then, slowly, he reaches for the tray. I hear the quiet clink of the spoon against the bowl, the shift of liquid inside. My stomach turns—not from hunger, but from sheer stubbornness.
"Open your mouth."
I stare at him, waiting for him to realize how ridiculous this is. When he doesn't, my glare sharpens.
My hands ball into fists under the blankets. I hate him.
But Miras just sighs and lifts the spoon, filled with steaming broth, toward me. I don't flinch, don't lean away—but I don't open my mouth either.
We sit in a silent standoff.
I hold my ground.
Then, he shifts closer.
"You're weak," he says, and it's not an insult—it's a fact. A cold, painful fact that I hate.
"You need food, Cherish," he continues. "Your body is already breaking down. If you don't eat, things are only going to get worse."
I glare at him. Good.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't snap at me. He just exhales slowly, like he's forcing himself to stay patient. "The longer you refuse to eat, the longer that tube stays in. And I know you hate it. It's your choice," he says simply. "Eat, or keep the tube."
I keep my eyes fixed on the wall, arms crossed over my stomach. The scent of the soup lingers in the air, but I ignore it, ignore him.
"You're impossible," Miras mutters, running a hand through his hair.
I don't respond.
"Do you even realize what you're doing to yourself?" His voice tightens with frustration. "You need to eat, Cherish."
Silence.
His hand curls into a fist on the table. "Damn it—" he cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose, trying to keep his temper in check. "You think this is just about you?"
That gets my attention. My eyes flicker toward him, sharp.
"It's not," he presses. "You scared the hell out of us, and you're still doing it. Every time you refuse to take care of yourself, every time you act like none of this matters, you're making all of us watch you fade away."
I clench my jaw, my grip tightening over my arms.
"Do you even care what that does to me?" His voice cracks, and when I finally look at him fully, I see the exhaustion, the frayed edges of his patience. His hands tremble slightly, his knuckles white where they grip the table. "Do you?"
Guilt stabs through me, sharp and unwelcome. But I shove it down.
I can't care.
Miras watches me, waiting—begging—for some kind of reaction. But I don't give him one. I keep my face blank, my arms locked around myself like armor.
His breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts. His fingers twitch like he wants to grab the spoon again, like he wants to do something—anything—to make me listen.
But I won't.
"I don't understand you," he finally says, voice quieter now, but no less raw. "You fight so hard to survive, and then you do this. You refuse help. You push us away. You'd rather starve than let anyone in."
I clench my jaw, forcing down the burn in my throat.
He runs a hand down his face, exhaling slow, trying to pull himself together. When he speaks again, his voice is steady, but softer. "I know you're mad. I know you hate all of this. But you have to eat, Cherish. You have to."
I swallow hard, my throat dry.
My hand trembles as I grab the bowl. The warm soup sloshes around inside, but it doesn't feel comforting. It doesn't feel like something that could fix me, could heal all this. So I do it. I throw the bowl, sending the contents spilling onto the floor with a sickening splash.
The sound rings in the room, sharp and final, and for a second, I think I might have broken something—myself included.
I don't look up, don't look at Miras, who's frozen in place. I can't face him. Not right now. Not when everything is so far from where I thought it would be. When I thought the pain would end, or at least stop for a little while, and I could breathe again.
But I can't breathe.
And this? This isn't fixing anything.
I stare at the mess I've made, my pulse pounding in my ears, my stomach twisted tight. It's like I can feel the weight of all of it, all the anger, the frustration, the suffocating grip of everything I can't control.
I hear Miras move behind me, hear him take a step forward like he's going to try and fix it. Try to clean it up, to make it better.
But he doesn't. He doesn't come close.
I don't let him.
"Fine, if you want to be like that, I'll tell Imani to keep the fucking tube in. You don't get to decide anymore, Cherish," he continues, his tone cold but not without pain. "You're not the only one suffering here. You keep refusing to fight, and you're dragging all of us down with you."
I feel my throat close up, but I don't say anything. I want to scream, I want to hurl more insults, but the words die in my throat, stuck behind the wall of pain that I've been building up for days now. I hear him move around behind me, his footsteps slow but determined. He's leaving—walking away, maybe to go get Imani or my father, maybe to take the decision out of my hands entirely.
My eyes say it all: do it. Keep the damn tube in.
Miras storms out of the room, his steps heavy with frustration. He doesn't look back, doesn't even bother to wait for me to respond. But the silence that follows in his wake feels like it presses in on me, suffocating me with all the unspoken things we've been holding back.
When I hear his voice again, it's not aimed at me but at Imani, who's waiting just outside the door.
"Imani," Miras says, his voice low and tense, "she's refusing to eat. Again."
I hear the quiet click of the door as it opens, Miras entering the hall, and I imagine his body, rigid with the anger he's trying so hard to hold in.
Imani's response is barely a sigh, though there's an edge of something in his voice when he answers. "I figured. She's been stubborn like this before. You know how she gets."
There's a pause, a stretch of silence where I can almost hear the weight of everything hanging between them. Miras is still standing there, and I can almost picture him, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, fighting the battle of wanting to break through to me and the anger of being pushed away.
"I don't know what else to do," Miras mutters, his voice cracking slightly. "I've tried everything. I've tried making her understand… but nothing's working. She's just so… stubborn."
"Stubborn is one way to put it," Imani replies dryly, his voice laced with something more resigned. "But you can't let her drive this train off the tracks, Miras. She's trying to push you away because she's scared. You have to know that."
"I know," Miras snaps. "But I don't know how much longer I can watch her self-destruct like this." His voice drops lower, a kind of helplessness seeping in. "She's killing herself, Imani. Slowly. And she won't let me help her."
There's another stretch of silence, the kind that settles into the bones, heavy and uncomfortable.
Imani's voice is quieter when he speaks again. "I know you're doing your best, Miras. But you've got to let her have her space. As much as it hurts, she has to make the choice. You can't force it, not right now. Not until she's ready."
Miras doesn't respond immediately, and when he does, his voice is strained, like he's fighting with himself. "I don't know if I can stand by and watch her destroy herself anymore. What if we wait too long, Imani? What if—"
"If doesn't matter right now," Imani interrupts, the sharpness in his tone cutting through Miras's spiraling thoughts. "What matters is that she knows you're here. That you're not going anywhere. But if you push too hard, if you keep pushing her… you'll push her farther away. You have to give her the space to come back."
A long exhale escapes Miras, one full of frustration and helplessness. "I don't know how to do that. I'm scared, Imani. I'm scared that if I let go, I'll lose her for good."
"And if you don't let go, you'll lose her anyway."
Imani's words land with finality. It's quiet for a moment, the reality of what's at stake settling between them. Finally, Miras speaks again, his voice a little steadier, but laced with exhaustion.
"I'll try. But I'm not giving up on her. Not now. Not ever."
Imani sighs, a sound full of understanding. "I know, Miras. I know."
And then, with that, the conversation ends. Miras lingers for a moment longer before the soft thud of his footsteps fades away, leaving me in silence once again.
Miras doesn't come back right away.
For the first time since I woke up, the space beside me—where he's always been—is empty. I tell myself it doesn't matter, that I don't care. But as the minutes stretch into hours, my chest feels tight, like something is pressing against it. It's not the pain. It's something else. Something I don't want to name.
Imani comes back once to check on me. My father lingers in the doorway, watching but not speaking. I don't acknowledge either of them. I hear them murmuring to each other outside, but I don't try to listen. I don't care.
Except…
I do.
I can't stop thinking about Miras's voice, low and breaking when he spoke to Imani. She's killing herself, and she won't let me help her. The way his words cracked at the edges, like he was unraveling, just like I was.
He didn't come back after that.
I pretend it doesn't bother me.
I pretend it doesn't feel like something is missing.
But then, just as night begins to creep in, the door opens again.
I don't have to look to know it's him.
I can feel it.
The way the air shifts, the way my body tenses before I can stop it. I keep my gaze fixed on the wall, refusing to acknowledge him.
Miras doesn't say anything at first. He just stands there, like he's trying to decide if he's even allowed to be here. Then, slowly, he steps forward.
A chair scrapes against the floor. He sits down beside me.
He doesn't try to force me to eat again. He doesn't lecture me. He just sits there, quiet, steady.
Minutes pass.
Then, finally, his voice—hoarse, strained—cuts through the silence.
"I'm sorry."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"For everything," he continues. "For what we did to you. For keeping things from you. For…" He exhales sharply. "For hurting you, even when I was trying to save you."
I don't answer.
He shifts, leaning forward. "You can be angry at me, Cherish. You can hate me if you want. But I'm still not leaving." His voice drops lower, rough with emotion. "I won't leave."
The words hit something deep inside me, something I've been trying to ignore. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms.
"I'd really wish you'd stop doing that," Miras glares at me, referring to my new habit of digging my palms into my nails.
I flex my fingers, barely loosening my grip, but I don't respond. I don't meet his gaze. I don't do anything that might let him think I'm willing to listen.
Miras exhales sharply through his nose. "You're not the only one who's hurting, you know."
That gets me.
My jaw tightens, my pulse jumps, and I snap my head toward him.
"No," he says, even though I don't say anything. "I didn't go through what you did. But I did have to watch you suffer. I had to listen to you beg me to stop when I couldn't." His hands ball into fists at his sides. "Do you think that didn't destroy me? Do you think I wanted to hurt you?"
Something about the way he says it—raw, desperate—makes my chest tighten painfully.
Miras leans closer, his voice low, heavy. "You think I don't see what you're doing? You're pushing everyone away. Refusing to eat. You want to hurt yourself because it's easier than facing everything." His voice catches for a second, but he swallows hard and keeps going. "I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you never forgive me. But I will not watch you destroy yourself."
Miras stares at me, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, waiting—begging—for me to say something. To fight back. To do something other than sit here drowning in my own anger.
But I don't.
I don't know how.
So I do what I always do. I shut down.
There's a long, suffocating silence. I can feel his hesitation, the way he's debating whether to listen or to stay and force me to deal with everything I don't want to.
But then, finally, I hear him step back. The soft creak of the chair. The quiet shuffle of his feet.
I wait for the door to open, for him to leave me alone.
But instead, Miras speaks again, his voice quiet, but firm.
"I'm coming back."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I exhale slowly, my body sinking further into the mattress, exhaustion creeping into every part of me. The weight of everything—the pain, the anger, the guilt—feels unbearable.
The soft hum of the feeding pump fills the silence, a slow, rhythmic sound that grates on my nerves. I don't need to look at it to know it's there—to know that I lost. Again.
The thin tube taped to my cheek feels heavier than it should, like an anchor holding me in place, a constant reminder that I don't have a choice. That they took the choice from me.
I hear the door open, then the quiet shuffle of footsteps. Miras.
I don't move. I keep my back to him, staring at the wall like it's the most interesting thing in the world.
"So, this is what we're doing now?" His voice is quieter than before, but there's an edge to it.
I don't answer. I don't even flinch.
A chair scrapes against the floor, then a heavy sigh. "I told you I'd make you eat," he mutters. "But I didn't want it to be like this."
I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers curling into the blanket. I hate this. I hate the way my body betrays me. I hate the way my stomach churns, not from hunger, but from the damn formula they're forcing into me. I hate that even now, when I refuse to give them what they want, they still win.
"You really want to keep this up?" Miras asks after a long moment. "Because I can do this all night. All week, if I have to."
I don't respond. I keep my breathing even, my body still. I won't give him the satisfaction.
Another sigh. He shifts, and I can feel his presence closer now, like he's leaning forward. "I know you're mad. I know you don't want to talk to me. But you can't just… refuse to take care of yourself because of it."
I grit my teeth. I am taking care of myself. I'm making a choice. My choice. And they still won't let me have it.
"You're still here, Cherish," he murmurs, his voice softer now. "After everything. After Amar, after flatlining, after your body trying to give up on you over and over. You're still here. But if you keep doing this, you're gonna undo everything we fought for."
Something tightens in my chest, but I shove it down, burying it under the weight of my anger.
My fingers twitch against the blanket—small, involuntary. I hate that he might notice it. I hate that he's right.
But I won't give in.
I won't.
The feeding pump hums, steady and indifferent. And I stay silent.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. The only sound is the soft whirring of the feeding pump, the slow drip of liquid keeping me alive even though I don't want it.
Miras doesn't move, doesn't push me anymore. For once, he lets the quiet settle. But I know him too well. He's waiting. Watching. Trying to figure out how to break through.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. I don't care.
Then, finally, he speaks again.
"I know you think this is about control." His voice is low, careful. "And maybe it is. Maybe you need to feel like you're choosing something, because everything else has been taken from you." He exhales sharply, like he's forcing himself to stay calm. "But this? Starving yourself? It's not control, Cherish. It's just letting what he did to you win."
I freeze.
My fingers tighten around the blanket, my breath catching in my throat.
He doesn't say Dr. Amar's name, but he doesn't have to. It's already there, clawing its way up from the depths of my mind, where I try to keep it buried.
"He made you feel powerless," Miras continues. "He made you suffer, made you think your body wasn't yours anymore. But it is." His voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of desperation, like he needs me to understand. "Letting yourself waste away doesn't take that back. It just gives him more power over you."
I swallow hard, my throat dry. My chest aches—not just from the damage to my heart, but from something deeper, something raw.
I hate him for saying it.
I hate him for being right.
Miras doesn't stop. He doesn't waver, doesn't hesitate, even as my silent tears begin to fall. He just keeps going, his voice steady, unshaken.
"I know you're hurting." His gaze locks onto mine, raw and unrelenting. "I know you don't trust me. I know you hate what we did. But you're alive, Cherish." He leans forward slightly, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, like he's forcing himself not to reach for me. "And if being alive is the worst thing I've done to you, then I can live with that."
I press my lips together, my breathing uneven, my chest tightening like a fist is squeezing my heart.
I want to shut him out.
I want to tell him to leave.
I want to hurt him the way I've been hurting.
But all I can do is stare at him through the blur of tears, shaking, drowning in the weight of everything I refuse to say.
Miras swallows hard, his throat working like he's struggling just as much as I am. His voice is quieter when he speaks again.
"You think I don't see it? The way you flinch when I get too close? The way you fight everything, even when it's killing you?" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "I know you hate me for keeping things from you. For what I let happen to you." His voice cracks, just slightly, but he forces himself through it. "But I won't apologize for saving you. I won't apologize for doing whatever it took to keep you breathing."
My breath shudders out, and I squeeze my eyes shut, like maybe if I don't see him, I won't have to feel this.
But then, softer—softer than I ever expected from him—he says, "You don't have to forgive me, Cherish." A pause. "But please… stop punishing yourself."
I bite my lip, hard enough to hurt.
He's asking too much.
He's always asking too much.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. Just a sharp, shaky breath.
Miras watches me, waiting.
And for the first time since this nightmare started, I don't know if I have the strength to fight him anymore.
I want to scream at him. To tell him that he doesn't understand. That he can't possibly know what it feels like to be strapped to a bed, helpless while the people you trusted forced your body into something you never agreed to.
But all I do is breathe. Shallow, shaky breaths.
And then, finally, Miras moves. Just barely. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor.
"I know you don't believe me," he says, voice low. "But I hate this, too."
My throat tightens. I don't want to hear this.
"I hate seeing you like this," he continues. "I hate knowing that you're suffering. That you think I don't care. That you—" His voice catches, and he presses his fingers against his temples, like he's trying to keep himself from breaking apart.
I swallow, my fingers curling into the sheets.
"You think this is easy for me?" he asks, looking up suddenly, his eyes burning. "You think I wanted to do any of this?"
I flinch. It's barely noticeable, but I know he catches it.
His face falls. His anger, his frustration—it all drains away, leaving behind something raw and exposed.
"I would've done anything, Cherish," he says, softer now. "Anything. If there was another way, I would've taken it. But there wasn't. And I—" His voice falters, and for the first time, I see it.
Not just the guilt. Not just the exhaustion.
The fear.
It's still there, buried deep beneath everything else. The fear of losing me. The fear that maybe—just maybe—I'll never be the same after this.
That maybe I'll never forgive him.
I look away. I can't let myself care about that.
Not when I'm still drowning in my own anger.
Not when my body still aches from what they did to me.
I force my voice to work, though it comes out hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Just… go."
Miras exhales sharply through his nose, like he expected that.
But he doesn't leave.
Instead, he leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, and says, "No."
I glare at him.
He doesn't flinch.
"I told you already," he says. "I'm not leaving."
The nausea hits me like a wave, sudden and relentless. My stomach churns, twisting with discomfort, and I can't stop the gag that rises in my throat. I clench my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut, hoping it'll pass. But it doesn't. It only gets worse, and then I feel it—my body betraying me.
I pull at the sheets, trying to find some kind of comfort, some relief. But there's nothing. The formula they've been feeding me through the tube sits in my stomach like a foreign, heavy thing that doesn't belong. It feels wrong, unnatural, and I can't stand it.
I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps, and my heart sinks before I even open my eyes.
Miras.
Of course, it's him. Why wouldn't it be?
He's been sitting there, waiting. Watching me suffer.
I can feel him close, and then I hear his voice, low and soft, like he's trying not to startle me. "Cherish…"
"Don't," I croak, voice trembling with the effort to stay calm. I turn my head away, not wanting him to see the way I'm falling apart. "Just go away. Please."
But I know he won't.
I know it because his hand—warm and hesitant—brushes against my shoulder. And then he's there, kneeling beside the bed, his breath against my ear, his face close enough that I can feel the heat of his body.
"You're okay," he murmurs, though I can tell from his voice he doesn't believe it. "It's okay. Just breathe."
I want to push him away. Want to shove him, tell him to leave me alone, to let me be alone for once. But the sickness overwhelms me, and I can't even summon the energy for that. All I can do is curl in on myself, clutching the blankets, willing myself to make the feeling stop. But it only gets worse. My stomach contracts painfully, and I gag again, this time unable to hold it back. The acid rises in my throat, bitter and sharp.Miras reacts immediately, his hand on my back, steadying me, though I can feel him tense. I know he's worried about me. But I can't—I can't—let him care. Not now. Not after everything.
I grab the bowl just in time. Without wasting a second, I vomited violently. Even when nothing is no longer coming up, my stomach convulses, causing a painful ache in my stomach.
Miras doesn't let go of me when the shaking finally subsides. He's still there, his hand warm and steady on my back, guiding me through the aftershocks of the nausea. The room feels too small, the air too thick with everything unsaid between us, but in this moment, it's as though none of it matters.
When my breathing evens out, when the trembling in my limbs begins to quiet, I finally open my eyes. I don't look at him, not right away. I'm afraid that if I do, something will break between us. But the tension in the air—his presence, warm and steady beside me—is almost too much to ignore. I try to push myself up, but my body feels heavy, like it's filled with lead. The simple act of moving feels impossible. I feel weak, too weak to even get out of bed. But then I feel him, his hand gently cupping my face, tilting my chin up so I have no choice but to meet his gaze. I hate how it feels, how vulnerable I am in this moment, how the anger I've been holding on to for so long threatens to slip away. But I don't know how to fight it anymore. Miras's eyes are wide with concern, the rawness of his feelings too exposed to hide. He takes the bowl from my hands, placing it on the table next to us so that I'm no longer hiding it.
Without asking, Miras takes my hands gently, his touch tender but insistent. His fingers are warm against my cold skin, tracing the lines of my palms. I flinch instinctively, but he doesn't let go. He's focusing, examining the scars—scars that I can barely stand to look at, let alone let someone else touch.
I want to pull away, want to tell him to stop, but my body betrays me, remaining still in his hold. He doesn't say anything at first, just traces the deep grooves of scar tissue, the marks left behind from all the times I've dug my nails into myself in pain. The silent shame of it lingers in the room, the rawness of my vulnerability exposed.
His breath catches softly, and it's like he's trying to hold back something. I see his jaw tighten, his gaze locked on my hands with an intensity that makes my chest tighten in a way I'm not ready to understand.
Miras folds my hand into a gentle fist, making sure my fingers don't press into me anymore than they need to. His fingers grace my knuckles before pulling my hand towards him. He stares up at me as he pulls my hand in, trying to gauge my reaction before proceeding. I'm not sure what he's trying to do, but I let him.
He places the first kiss near my wrist before placing another kiss on the back of my hand. The third kiss lands on my knuckles, before moving to my fingers. Each kiss is delicate, planned, and precise, as if he can kiss away the harm I've done to myself.
And god, I wish he could.
I cross my arms over my chest, the weight of their stares pressing down on me. Imani stands a few feet away, patient as ever, but I can see the expectation in his eyes. My father is near the door, silent but watchful, as if he thinks his presence alone will make me cooperate. And Miras—Miras is beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him even though he isn't touching me.
They want me to try again. They want me to get up, to walk.
I know what's going to happen. My body will fail me. It always does
"Cherish," Imani says, steady, unwavering. "You have to—"
No.
My nails dig into my arm. I don't care if I'm being childish. I don't care if I'm making this harder than it has to be. They've been deciding things for me since I woke up. Where I go, what I hear, what I do. I'm done.
Imani sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he's gathering patience. "I know you're frustrated. I know you're angry—"
I don't have to do anything.
Miras shifts beside me. "Cherish," he says, softer than Imani, but just as steady. He doesn't try to reason with me. He doesn't try to force me. He just holds out his hand. "Let me help."
I glance at it, then at him. The weight of his gaze is heavy, searching, but I shake my head. No.
He doesn't move, doesn't drop his hand right away. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me but knows better.
"Why?"
The question is quiet. Not demanding, not pushing—just there.
Because I. Don't. Want. Too.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I keep my arms wrapped tightly around myself, my fingers digging into the sleeves of my shirt like I can anchor myself in place, like I can make my refusal matter.
But it doesn't.
Because Miras is still there, still watching me, still waiting.
Because Imani hasn't left.
Because my father—who I refuse to look at—hasn't given up either.
Because no matter how angry I am, no matter how much I want to fight them, I want this, too.
I just don't want to fail again.
I close my eyes, breathing through the frustration curling in my ribs, through the sharp sting of pain that always lingers there.
I want to move.
When I open my eyes, Miras is still holding his hand out to me, patient as ever. His expression hasn't changed, but I see something there. Something quiet. Something just for me.
I hate that I trust him.
I hate that I take his hand anyway.
The warmth of his palm is grounding, steady. He doesn't grip too tightly, doesn't force me forward. He lets me decide. And when I nod—small, barely noticeable—he shifts just slightly, close enough that if I fall, he'll catch me.
I hate that I need that.
I press my foot to the ground, waiting for the familiar weakness, the failure, but it doesn't come. It shakes, yes, and my body is slow to listen, but I move. I lift myself up, legs trembling under my weight, my breath catching in my throat—but I stand.
I don't let myself think.
I take a step.
My knee wobbles, and Miras moves just a little, ready, but I don't fall. I don't collapse. I don't fail.
Another step. My breath stutters, and I feel the strain everywhere—my legs, my ribs, my hands gripping Miras too tightly—but I don't stop.
One more.
And then I'm away from bed.
Something cracks inside me.
The weight of it, the sheer relief, slams into me all at once. My shoulders shake before I can stop them, and I squeeze my eyes shut, biting down on my lip as the first tear slips down my cheek.
I don't want to cry. I don't want them to see.
But when a choked sob forces its way out of my throat, I know I can't stop it.
I did it.
After everything, after the pain, the fear, the failure—I walked.
The sob wracks through me, and I press a hand to my mouth, as if I can shove it back down. I don't want them to see me like this, not after everything. Not after I fought so hard to push them away.
But Miras doesn't let me hide.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't try to soothe me with empty reassurances. He just steps closer, his presence warm and steady. His hand hovers near my back, waiting, always waiting, and when I don't push him away, he finally touches me.
The weight of his palm between my shoulders unravels something inside me.
I turn toward him before I can stop myself, my hands clutching at his shirt like it's the only thing keeping me from collapsing. Another sob shudders through me, raw and unguarded, and Miras doesn't hesitate—he wraps his arms around me, pulling me in like I belong there.
And maybe I do.
My fingers tighten in the fabric at his back, holding on as if I can hold myself together, but it's useless. The floodgates have opened, and there's nothing I can do but feel.
I don't know how long I stand there, shaking, pressed against him. I don't know how long he holds me, murmuring something low in a voice I can't quite make out. But when my sobs finally quiet, when my breathing slows, I realize something.
No one else has said a word.
I force myself to lift my head, my vision still blurred with tears, and my stomach twists at what I find.
Imani is watching me, his expression unreadable, but there's something tight in his jaw, something almost pained in the way he looks at me. He exhales slowly, nodding once, like this—this—is what he wanted all along.
And my father… My father looks like he doesn't know whether to step forward or keep his distance. His hands are curled into fists at his sides, his lips pressed together in something close to restraint. There's something raw in his expression, something I don't have the strength to unpack.
I don't know what to do with any of it.
I sniff, wiping my face against my sleeve, and pull back from Miras, though I don't let go entirely. He doesn't let go either.
For the first time in what feels like forever, the anger isn't boiling in my chest. It's still there, still simmering, but beneath it is something else. Something that feels too close to hope.
I don't want to talk to them. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.
But I walked.
Imani exhales sharply, and I turn toward him before I can think better of it. He's still standing near the doorway, his hands now resting on his hips, but there's something off in his expression. Something tight and strained, like he's relieved but also trying not to let it show.
I don't look at my father. I can't. Not yet.
Instead, I take another step—small, careful, but mine.
Miras shifts with me, just slightly, ready in case I need him. I don't.
I stare down at my feet, at the space between me and my bed, my breath catching in my throat. A shaky laugh slips out before I can stop it, part disbelief, part exhaustion, part—something else.
Imani crosses his arms. "Think you can make it to the chair?" He nods toward the worn armchair near the window, just a few steps away.
The old me—the version of myself before the cube, before Amar, before all of this—would have scoffed, thrown something at him for even asking. But I'm not that person anymore. And right now, that chair might as well be a mile away.
Miras stays close as I move forward, but I keep going. Step by step. Breath by breath.
I reach the chair, my body trembling with the effort, and when I lower myself down, my limbs nearly give out beneath me. The relief is immediate, my muscles burning, my breath uneven, but I did it.
I ran my fingers over the worn fabric of the armrest, my hands still unsteady, and let out another breath.
"Good," Imani says, voice softer now. "That's good. You're making progress."
Miras crouches beside me, his arms resting on his knees, watching me carefully. He hasn't let go of me completely, not really. Even now, his presence lingers, a silent promise that he's here, that he's not going anywhere.
I don't know what to do with that.
Imani stays by the door, arms crossed, his weight shifting slightly like he wants to come closer but knows better. "You'll walk again. Properly." His voice is even, steady. Certain. "It's not a question of if, just when."
I should be relieved by that. Maybe a part of me is. But another part—one still coiled tight with resentment—wants to snap at him. Wants to ask him where was that certainty when I was trapped in that hell?
But I don't. Not today.
Instead, I press my lips together and nod once. It's not forgiveness. It's not even understanding. But it's something.
My father hasn't moved. I can feel his presence, heavy in the air, just behind Imani. I know he's watching, probably waiting for me to acknowledge him. I don't. Not yet.
Miras clears his throat softly. "Do you want water?"
I nod again, not trusting my voice. He squeezes my knee gently before standing, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom.
The room is still too quiet.
Imani shifts. "I should—" He stops himself, exhales through his nose. "I'll come by later."
I glance up at him. He's already turned toward the door, but he hesitates, waiting. For what, I don't know. For me to stop him? To say something?
I don't.
With a slow nod, he steps out.
My father doesn't follow.
I feel my chest tighten, my throat close up. I don't want to look at him. Don't want to see the emotion I know is in his face.
But then he speaks. "I'm so proud of you."
It's quiet. Almost hesitant.
Something inside me wavers. Not breaking, not yet. But close.
I stare at my hands, at the way they tremble just slightly, at the scars that will never fade.
Miras returns before I have to respond, setting a glass of water on the small table beside me. He doesn't say anything, just settles onto the floor near my legs, a quiet, grounding presence.
My father waits another beat. Then, without another word, he turns and walks out.
The second the door clicks shut, my shoulders drop. The exhaustion pulls at me again, heavier this time.
Miras watches me, not pushing, not saying anything. Just waiting.
I don't know what he's waiting for. I don't even know what I'm waiting for.
But for now, I let myself breathe.
The dream is suffocating.
I'm back in the Cube. Back on that cold, sterile floor, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and blood. My blood. My breath rattles in my chest, sharp and uneven, and no matter how hard I try, I can't get enough air.
He's there.
Dr. Amar stands over me, his face blurred by the too-bright lights overhead, but I know it's him. I can feel it. The cold press of his hands, the way he tilts his head like I'm some kind of experiment, a puzzle he hasn't quite solved yet.
"You never could handle pain well, could you?" His voice is gentle. Too gentle. Like he's amused. Like he knows there's nothing I can do to stop him.
I try to move, to get away, but my body doesn't listen. My limbs are leaden, useless. The pain is everywhere, crawling through me like fire, and my chest—God, my chest—tightens like a fist closing around my lungs. I can't breathe. I can't—
A hand on my arm.
I jerk awake with a gasp, my body lurching forward before I even realize where I am.
The chair. The dim glow of the lamp. The scent of something clean, something warm—Miras.
My whole body trembles, my pulse hammering so hard it makes me dizzy. The nightmare is still clinging to me, thick and heavy, and I swear I can still feel Amar's hands—
"Cherish."
The voice is real. He's not.
I blink hard, my vision blurry, my breathing too fast, too shallow. I don't want to look. I don't want to see his face staring back at me—
"Cherish."
Not Amar.
Miras.
I force myself to focus, to pull myself out of the nightmare's grip, and when I do, I find him kneeling in front of me, his hands hovering just above my arms, like he's not sure if I'll let him touch me. His eyes are steady, dark with concern, his brows drawn together in something close to pain.
I try to speak, but my throat feels raw. Like I really had been screaming.
Miras doesn't push. He doesn't rush me. He just stays there, waiting.
I drag in a shaky breath—too shallow, not enough—and then another. The tightness in my chest doesn't ease.
Miras notices.
"Breathe," he says softly, like he knows.
I shake my head, my fingers clenching in the armrests. My lungs are refusing to work right, each breath catching, too sharp, too fast. I know this feeling. I hate this feeling.
Miras shifts, moving so carefully I barely notice until he's next to me, his presence solid and warm. His fingers brush against my wrist—light, cautious—but when I don't pull away, he laces them through mine.
I hold on like it's the only thing keeping me here.
His other hand presses to my back, slow and steady, rubbing small circles between my shoulders. "Breathe with me."
I shake my head again, but he doesn't stop.
He inhales deeply. Holds it. Then exhales, slow and steady.
I try. I really do. But my chest aches, my ribs squeezing tight, and I can't get enough air.
"Again," he murmurs, his voice unwavering.
I follow him. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
My breaths are still too shallow, but the rhythm helps.
He keeps doing it. Keeps guiding me through it, his hand never leaving my back, his fingers never letting go of mine.
Slowly, so slowly, the panic ebbs.
Miras doesn't push, but I can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unwavering. I'm still holding on to his hand like it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart. My chest still aches, still tight, but I don't want to admit it. Not to him.
"I think you need to rest," he says quietly, the words soft but firm. "You want me to move you back to the bed?"
I hesitate, caught in that moment between needing help and refusing it. My body aches from the strain of sitting up, of trying to breathe through the pain, and I can't remember the last time I felt so completely exhausted.
But I don't want to be weak. I don't want to need him like that.
"No," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. "I'm fine here."
Miras doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look surprised. He just stays close, his hand still holding mine with quiet insistence. "I know you don't want me to do everything for you, Cherish. But you need to rest. You've been through a lot."
I shake my head, trying to push past the discomfort, the vulnerability. I don't want to be moved. I don't want to be coddled. But the truth is, my body feels like it's giving out. Every muscle is stiff, every breath a struggle, and the weight of it all presses in on me.
"I said no," I repeat, my voice tight.
But Miras doesn't back down. He's never been the type to back off just because I'm being stubborn.
He shifts, his other hand gently touching my back, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. It's grounding, soothing. His touch is like a reminder that I'm not completely alone in this, even when everything inside me is telling me to push him away.
"I'm not trying to make you feel weak," he says, his voice calm and steady. "I just want to help."
I bite my lip, torn between wanting to stay where I am, hold on to whatever sense of control I have left, and the undeniable pull of the comfort he's offering.
And then, against everything in me, I nod.
"Okay," I whisper. "Help me."
Miras's expression softens, a quiet relief in his eyes that I don't quite understand but can feel in the way he moves. He gently shifts me, his hands never far from my body, making sure I'm steady, making sure I don't fall. Slowly, carefully, he helps me to my feet, the ache in my chest sharp but manageable now that I'm moving.
"Steady," he murmurs, keeping his voice low and calm.
I feel his presence all around me, like a quiet shield against everything that threatens to make me fall apart. My chest tightens again with the effort of standing, each inhale sharp, too shallow, but I don't let myself collapse. I won't. Not with him here.
"I'm okay," I murmur, though the words sound more like a plea than a declaration.
Miras doesn't respond at first. Instead, he just keeps moving with me, making sure I stay upright, making sure I don't tip over. His other hand moves to my waist, supporting me without being too forceful, guiding me through the small, careful steps.
My body feels heavier with every movement, the strain in my muscles relentless. My legs feel like jelly, and each step feels like it takes all my strength to keep moving. But Miras is there, right by my side, his steps matching mine, slow and measured, as if he knows how easily I could stumble.
We make it to the bed, and I stop, my breathing shallow as I stare at it, my chest tight. It's close, so close. But even that last distance feels like an impossible mountain to climb.
"You can do this," Miras whispers, the words almost like a command, but soft enough to be a comfort. "Just a little farther."
I force myself to take another step, then another, and when I reach the edge of the bed, I hesitate, my legs shaking beneath me. The weight of the world is pressing on my chest, but I don't stop. I can't.
Miras moves to support me more fully now, his hands steady on my waist, guiding me toward the bed. His touch is firm, but it's gentle, as if he's careful with me, like I'm fragile. But I don't feel fragile. Not anymore.
"Sit," he says, helping me lower myself slowly onto the bed. The cool sheets feel like a relief against my skin, but I can't shake the weight in my chest. The exhaustion. The aching, unrelenting tension.
When I'm settled, he shifts around, adjusting the pillows behind me, making sure I'm as comfortable as I can be. I lean back against them, my muscles still trembling from the effort, my breathing slowly evening out as I allow myself a moment to rest.
Miras lingers, his hand still resting lightly on my shoulder as if he's ready to catch me if I fall, though he doesn't say anything. He just stays. His presence is solid, grounding, like he's not going anywhere.
"I'm okay," I say again, but this time, I believe it more. I have to.
Miras nods, his fingers brushing the side of my arm, a soft touch that reassures me even as my heart stutters in my chest. "You are," he agrees. "But just rest. I'll stay."
I try to focus on the quiet sound of his voice, the way he seems to know exactly what I need, even when I don't. My body wants to collapse into sleep, but I fight it for a moment longer, just to let the moment stretch out, to let his warmth settle into me.