The next seventy-two hours passed in a haze. Alexa existed in a small room in the psychiatric unit, walls painted an aggressive shade of calming blue, a window that didn't open, a door that locked from the outside.
She met with Dr. Patel twice a day. Talked about Yvonne, about Miriam, about Charles and the years of emotional abuse that had left her feeling worthless. Talked about the panic attacks she'd been having for years, the ones she'd ignored or explained away, convinced they were her own weakness rather than a medical condition.
"These attacks you've been having," Dr. Patel explained during one session, "they're your body's alarm system going off. You've been under chronic stress for years, the relationship with Charles, caring for Yvonne alone, processing your sister's death. Your nervous system has been in constant fight-or-flight mode. What happened when Yvonne died was your body hitting its breaking point."
"So I'm broken," Alexa said flatly.
"No. You're human. You've experienced more trauma than most people face in a lifetime, and you kept going. That's not weakness, Alexa. That's incredible strength. But even the strongest people need help sometimes."
They gave her medications: antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills, something to help her sleep without nightmares. Alexa took them mechanically, not because she wanted to feel better, but because compliance was the price of eventual freedom.
A social worker named Janet visited on the second day, bringing paperwork and concerned questions about Alexa's living situation, her finances, her support system.
"Do you have family you can stay with?" Janet asked gently. "Friends who can check on you?"
"No family. My neighbor, Mrs. Martinez, has been kind. But I don't want to burden her."
"She wouldn't see it as a burden. Grief is easier when we don't carry it alone."
"I prefer alone," Alexa said, though it wasn't true. She preferred Yvonne. She preferred her sister. She preferred a world where the people she loved didn't keep dying.
On the third day, they held a treatment team meeting: Dr. Patel, Janet, a nurse, and Alexa, discussing whether she was safe to discharge.
"Your vital signs are stable," Dr. Patel said, reviewing her chart. "You've been taking your medications. You've engaged in our sessions. But Alexa, I need to hear from you: if we let you go home, are you going to hurt yourself?"
Alexa knew what answer would keep her here, trapped in this sterile room with its locked door and constant supervision. She knew what answer would set her free.
"No," she said, meeting the doctor's eyes with what she hoped looked like honesty. "I won't hurt myself. I understand now that what I'm feeling is grief, not reality. That with help, I can get through this."
Dr. Patel studied her face for a long moment. "Do you mean that?"
"Yes," Alexa lied.
The doctor didn't look entirely convinced, but after seventy-two hours, they couldn't legally hold her unless she explicitly threatened herself. "Alright. We're going to discharge you this afternoon. But with conditions."
Janet opened a folder, pulling out papers. "You'll be released with prescriptions for antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. You have an appointment with a grief counselor in five days, it's already scheduled. Here's a list of crisis hotlines you can call any time, day or night. And we're setting up a check-in call with our social work team in three days."
"Mrs. Martinez has agreed to check on you daily," Dr. Patel added. "We've spoken with her. She's aware of the situation and wants to help."
"You called her?" Alexa felt a flash of anger, quickly suppressed.
"We needed to ensure you had support. She cares about you, Alexa. Let her."
They made Alexa sign papers promising she understood the discharge plan, that she would take her medications, attend her appointments, call the hotline if she felt unsafe. She signed everything, said what they needed to hear, played the part of someone choosing to live.
At 4 PM, she walked out of the psychiatric unit with a plastic bag full of pill bottles, a stack of appointment cards and resource sheets, and a plan already forming in her mind.
She would go home. She would attend Yvonne's funeral tomorrow. She would say goodbye properly.
And then she would make sure she never had to say goodbye to anyone ever again.
********
Mrs. Martinez was waiting in the hospital lobby, her round face creased with worry. When she saw Alexa, she rushed forward, pulling her into a tight embrace that smelled like lavender and home cooking.
"Mija," she breathed. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry about Yvonne."
Alexa stood stiff in her arms, unable to return the hug, unable to feel anything but the weight of what she was about to do.
"The hospital called," Mrs. Martinez continued, pulling back to look at Alexa's face. "They told me what happened. You don't have to be alone; you hear me? You come stay with me. I have the guest room ready. You shouldn't be in that apartment by yourself."
"I'm okay," Alexa said. "I just need some time."
"Time alone is not what you need. Please, Alexa. Let me help."
"You've already helped so much. Really. I just...I need to be in my own space. To process everything." Alexa forced what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "The doctors gave me medication. I have appointments scheduled. I'm going to be fine."
Mrs. Martinez looked unconvinced, but finally nodded. "Okay. But I'm checking on you every day. And you call me, any time, if you need anything. Promise me."
"I promise," Alexa said, another lie among so many.
The older woman drove her home, chattering nervously about the weather, the neighborhood, anything to fill the silence. When they pulled up to the apartment building, she insisted on walking Alexa upstairs.
The apartment was too quiet.
The apartment was exactly as she'd left it; Yvonne's cereal bowl still in the sink, her backpack hanging by the door, waiting for a school day that would never come. Her library book lay open on the coffee table, bookmarked at a story she'd never finish. Her laughter still echoing in the walls.
Alexa stood in the doorway, and the emptiness hit her like a physical force.
"I brought some food," Mrs. Martinez said, moving past her into the kitchen. "Casserole, soup, some empanadas. You need to eat, Mija. Keep your strength up."
Mrs. Martinez had tried to clean up, she busied herself putting containers in the refrigerator while Alexa remained frozen in place.
"The funeral," Mrs. Martinez said gently. "It's tomorrow at eleven. I've arranged everything with the funeral home. A small service, just those who loved her. I'll pick you up at ten-thirty?"
"Okay," Alexa whispered.
Mrs. Martinez came back to her, cupped her face gently. "You're going to get through this. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you will. One day at a time, Mija. One breath at a time."
Alexa nodded, not believing a word.
After Mrs. Martinez left, reluctantly, with many backward glances. Alexa finally moved. She walked through the apartment like a ghost, touching Yvonne's things, breathing in the last traces of her presence. She picked up the stuffed rabbit from Yvonne's bed, the one she'd slept with since she was a baby, and held it to her chest.
In the kitchen, she noticed the calendar on the wall. Yvonne had circled a date next month in red marker: Birthday Beach Trip!!! with three exclamation points and little drawings of shells and waves.
They would never take that trip.
Alexa would never braid Yvonne's hair again, never hear her impossible questions, never watch her grow into the amazing person she was meant to become.
She moved to her bedroom, sat on the edge of her bed, and stared at nothing for a long time. As evening faded into night, as the apartment grew dark around her, Alexa finally allowed herself to fully feel what she'd been holding at bay for three days.
The grief crashed over her in waves, each one pulling her further under. She curled onto her side, clutching Yvonne's rabbit, and sobbed until she had nothing left.
When the crying finally stopped, when she was empty and exhausted, Alexa sat up. She turned on her bedside lamp. And with perfect clarity, she knew what she was going to do.
Tomorrow, she would bury Yvonne. She would say goodbye to the last person on earth who mattered.
And then, when it was done, when she'd honored her niece properly, Alexa would find her own ending.
She wouldn't fail this time. Wouldn't collapse from panic or be saved by well-meaning doctors. She would plan carefully, do it right, make sure her death meant something.
The thought should have scared her. Instead, it brought the first peace she'd felt in days.
She had a purpose now. One final act of love, one last choice that was entirely hers.
Alexa lay back down, still holding the stuffed rabbit, and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be unbearable. But the day after that, there wouldn't need to be a day after that.
Finally, she could rest.