I wake up this time in my room.
Not a hospital. Not the blinding white ceiling, not the IV in my arm, not the constant beep reminding me I'm still alive.
Just my room.
My ceiling, with the tiny glow‑in‑the‑dark stars Gali stuck up there the first night I moved in. My walls, covered in photos of Mom and me, edges slightly curled from being moved too many times. My squishmallows piled around me like a ridiculous, soft army.
For a moment, I don't move. I just stare at the ceiling and let my brain try to catch up.
I'm alive.
The thought doesn't land right away. It feels…distant. It belongs to someone else. My body feels heavy, like I've been underwater for too long and only just broken the surface.
My throat is dry, and when I shift, a sharp pain shoots through my jaw and ribs. A quiet hiss escapes my lips.
Right. Maggy. The boys. The knife.
Rowan.
My heart stutters, then races, replaying flashes I don't want but can't stop.
His voice is screaming my name. His fists hit something—someone. His arms were around me as everything went black.
I force myself to sit up, ignoring the throbbing pain in my body. My room is dim, the curtains half‑closed, soft light seeping in. There's a glass of water on my nightstand, half‑full. Two pill bottles. A folded note with my name on it.
The handwriting is messy and familiar.
Rowan.
My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper.
Brooklyn,
If you're reading this, it means you woke up, and I'm not there, which sucks because I promised myself I wouldn't leave you alone again. The doctor made me go home to sleep,p or they'd ban me from visiting. Threat level: serious.
I'll be back. I swear.
Take the meds. Drink water. Don't freak out if it hurts to move. You're okay. You're safe.
You're here.
I love you.
Your idiot, Rowan
I snort, a broken little laugh that hurts my ribs but warms something deep inside my chest.
Your idiot.
I don't know how long I sit there just staring at his handwriting, tracing the letters like they might disappear if I blink. I remember the hospital—the bright lights, Mom's voice, Gali's tears, Rowan asleep on my legs. But the last thing I clearly remember is the heaviness dragging me down, the thought that the world had finally won.
Yet here I am.
Breathing.
Still.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my feet touch the cool floor. My thigh throbs, an ugly reminder beneath the fabric of my shorts. I glance at the little drawer where I used to hide the glass and lighter.
Used to.
The thought hits me harder than it should.
I drag myself over and open the drawer.
Empty.
No glass. No lighter. Nothing.
A slow, shaky breath leaves my chest. Of course. Rowan was here. He saw. He knows.
The old me would panic, anger boiling up because someone dared to take away the one thing I still controlled.
Now, all I feel is tired.
So damn tired.
"Naira?"
Mom's voice floats in through the door just before it opens a crack. Her head appears first, hair pulled into a messy bun, makeup smudged under her eyes. She looks like she hasn't slept in days.
My chest tightens.
"Hey, Mommy," I whisper.
She's across the room in a second, arms around me, pulling me against her like she's afraid I might vanish if she lets go. Her perfume wraps around me—warm, familiar, home.
"I thought you were asleep," she murmurs into my hair, her voice trembling. "How do you feel, baby?"
"As I got hit by a truck," I mutter. "Twice."
She lets out a wet laugh, then pulls back just enough to cup my face. Her eyes shine with tears.
"Don't ever scare me like that again, Naira. Do you understand me?"
Guilt slams into me—sharp, deep, suffocating.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I…I didn't think—"
"That's the problem," she cuts in softly, brushing a curl away from my cheek. "You thought you had to handle it alone."
I drop my gaze. The silence between us is heavy, full of all the things we never talked about—Dad, the bruises, the nights I cried myself to sleep while she pretended everything was sunshine.
"It started with him, didn't it?" she asks quietly.
My fingers curl into the blanket. My throat burns.
"I didn't want to break you," I admit, voice barely audible. "You were all I had. If I told you, if I made it real… I was scared you'd choose him again."
Her breath hitches as I slap her.
"Naira." My name cracks in her mouth. "I would never choose him over you."
I look up, and for the first time, I see it. The guilt in her eyes. The regret. The way her hands shake as she pulls me back against her.
"I should have protected you. From him. From all of it," she whispers. "I can't change what happened. But I'm here now. And I'm not letting anything—anyone—hurt you again. Not even you, do you hear me?"
Her last words land like a blow.
Not even you.
Something inside me cracks, and a raw sob tears free before I can stop it. I cling to her, shaking, finally letting myself break in the place I've always pretended to be the strongest.
"I'm so tired, Mom," I choke. "I'm so tired of fighting everyone. Dad. School. Maggy. Rowan. Myself. I'm just…tired."
She rocks me gently, the way she did when I was a kid, and monsters only lived under the bed.
"Then stop fighting alone," she whispers into my hair. "Let us fight with you this time."
Us.
Like the word summons her, a soft knock sounds on the door.
"Can I come in?" Gali's voice is small, cautious.
"Yeah, come on, G," I say, wiping at my eyes.
She slips in, eyes red and puffy, curls piled on her head in a lopsided bun. She's clutching a blanket—my favorite one. The light blue one she stole three nights in a row when we had movie marathons.
"Oh my God, you're awake," she breathes, and then she's on the bed, climbing up and throwing herself at me.
"Careful!" Mom yelps. "She's still sore."
Gali freezes mid‑hug, then carefully wraps her arms around me, holding on like I'm something precious that slipped and cracked but didn't break all the way.
"I thought you died," she chokes. "I thought I was going to lose my sister five minutes after getting her. That bitch—"
"Language," Mom warns weakly.
"That witch," Gali corrects, rolling her eyes through her tears, "really thought she'd win. But she didn't. You're still here. You're still my annoying, hot, badass, emotionally constipated sister."
I laugh wetly.
"Emotionally constipated? Seriously?"
She shrugs. "If the shoe fits."
I lean my head on her shoulder, letting the rhythm of their breathing anchor me. For the first time since Nightfall Springs, I feel something I haven't let myself feel fully.
Safe.
"Where's Michel?" I ask quietly.
"In the kitchen, threatening to buy the entire school and fire everyone who even looked at you wrong," Gali mutters.
Mom sighs. "He's…taking it personally."
Of course he is.
Rich, overprotective, and slightly dramatic. That's Michel.
My chest tightens with something that's half gratitude, half disbelief. How did I go from a tiny apartment with yelling and slammed doors to a beach house where a man I barely know wants to burn down the world for me?
"And Rowan?" I ask, trying—and failing—to sound casual.
Gali smirks immediately.
"Oh, now she asks."
"Gali," Mom warns.
"What? I'm happy! The guy has been glued to your side like a koala on caffeine. He only left because he smelled like a locker room and the nurse threatened to drag him out herself."
Warmth bubbles in my chest, mingling with embarrassment.
"He cares about you, N," Gali continues, a little softer now. "Like…really cares. When he brought you to the hospital, there was blood on his face and knuckles, and he didn't even notice. He wouldn't let anyone touch you until the doctors came. He kept saying, 'Please don't take her from me. Please. She can't leave me too.'"
The words hit a spot I didn't know was still raw.
Leave me too.
There's a story there. A wound behind his stupid jokes and cocky smirk.
I swallow, suddenly aching to see him, to hear his annoying voice calling me Brooklyn like the idiot he is.
"Can I…go to school tomorrow?" I ask suddenly.
Mom pulls back as if I just suggested jumping off a cliff.
"Absolutely not."
"Mom—"
"You were attacked, Naira. You need rest. You need time. We're talking to the police, the school, everyone. You are not walking back into that place as if nothing happened."
"I'm not," I protest. "I just… I don't want to hide. If I stay here, it feels like she won. Like they scared me into disappearing."
Mom's jaw tightens. Gali looks between us, worried.
"N, nobody thinks you're weak for resting," G says quietly. "But if you want to go back, we'll make sure it's your decision. Not fear's."
Her words settle over me like a warm blanket.
My decision.
When was the last time something actually felt like that?
Mom rubs her temples, then looks at me, eyes softening.
"Sleep on it," she says. "We'll talk to the doctor. To the principal. But promise me something."
"What?"
"If you go back, you don't go back alone."
I think of Gali's arm looped through mine, of Lany's bright eyes, of Rowan's stupid grin.
"Deal," I whisper.
Mom kisses my forehead and reluctantly stands.
"I'll bring you some soup," she says. "And maybe convince Michel not to declare war on the entire teenage population of Nightfall Springs."
Gali presses a kiss to my cheek, wiping her eyes.
"I'm stealing one squishmallow," she declares. "Emotional support."
"That's mine," I protest weakly.
"Too late," she singsongs, grabbing my favorite one and hugging it to her chest as she leaves.
The door closes with a soft click.
Silence settles over the room again, but it feels different now. Less like a weight and more like a pause. A breath.
I lie back slowly, muscles aching, and stare at the stars on my ceiling.
For the first time, I let myself think the thing that's been hovering just out of reach.
I could have died.
In the dirt, under those bleachers. With Maggy's voice in my ear and a knife at my throat. I could have stopped existing right there, my story ending in someone else's hands.
But I didn't.
I'm still here.
Alive.
Messy.
Hurting like hell.
But here.
The thought doesn't fix anything. It doesn't erase the fear, or the scars, or the way my chest tightens when the room gets too quiet.
But it plants something small and stubborn deep inside me.
A decision.
If the world really wants to see me break so badly, then fine.
I'll let it watch me get back up instead.
A soft tap on the window makes me jump.
My heart rockets into my throat as I jolt upright, pain shooting down my side.
"Relax, Brooklyn," a muffled voice comes from outside. "It's just me. Your favorite bad decision."
Rowan.
Of course.
I shuffle over to the window, every step a reminder of what my body's been through, and slide it open.
He's standing on the little balcony, hoodie on, curls messy, bruises blooming purple and yellow along his jaw. His lip is split, eyes tired—but when he sees me, they light up.
"There she is," he says softly. "My warrior."
I roll my eyes, but my lips betray me with a tiny smile.
"You know there's this thing called a front door," I mutter.
"Yeah, and there's this thing called your mom, who scares the shit out of me right now," he replies, swinging one leg over and slipping inside. "I like living. And I like my head attached to my body."
He lands softly on my floor and straightens, eyes scanning me from head to toe like he's checking for new injuries.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
It's a stupid question.
No. I'm not.
But I'm breathing. I'm standing. I'm looking at him, at the bruises he got because of me.
"I've been worse," I say.
He lets out a breathy laugh.
"Yeah. Same."
For a second, we just stare at each other. The air between us thickens with everything that happened, everything we said, everything we never did.
Then I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
He stiffens in surprise, then exhales and folds me into his chest like I'm the only thing holding him together.
"I heard you," I murmur against his hoodie.
"Heard what?"
"You, at the hospital," I say. "Gali told me. 'Please don't take her from me. She can't leave me too.'"
He goes still.
Silence.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
"Who left you?" I ask softly.
His jaw flexes. For once, there's no smirk. No joke. Just him.
"My dad," he says finally. "When I was twelve. Walked out one night and never came back. Mom pretends he's dead. I pretend I don't care. Lany pretends it didn't break her. We all suck at pretending."
I swallow.
"That's why you make bets?" I ask. "So you can leave before anyone else does?"
His laugh is humorless.
"Yeah, something like that," he mutters. "Thought if I never took anything seriously, nothing could hurt me. Then you showed up in that stupid Brooklyn shirt and told me to beat it."
I feel heat rush to my cheeks.
"You deserved it."
"I know." He smiles, small and crooked. "And for the record, the bet was the dumbest thing I ever agreed to. I didn't think you'd actually…matter."
He lifts a hand like he's going to touch my face, then stops halfway, hovering.
"Do I still get to love you?" he asks quietly. "After all of this. After Maggy. After the hospital. After…everything?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy and trembling.
Love.
The word doesn't feel like a dagger anymore. It feels like a risk.
A choice.
I think of his hands shaking in the hospital. Of him fighting two guys twice his size. Of his voice calling my name in the dark. Of him sitting on my bed until he passed out.
I think of the girl who burned her skin just to feel something she could control.
And the girl lying here now, still scarred, still angry, but alive.
"Love isn't my thing," I whisper. "You know that."
"I know," he says, voice rough. "But you're my thing."
Idiot.
I close the little distance between us and press my forehead to his.
"Then don't make me your bet again," I say. "Don't make me your game. If you want to love me, Rowan, you'd better mean it. Even when I'm a mess. Especially then."
His hand finally cups my cheek, thumb grazing the faint bruise forming along my jaw.
"I already do," he murmurs. "Mess and all."
Something inside me loosens.
"I'm not promising forever," I warn. "I don't even know how tomorrow will look. But I'm here. And I'm willing to try."
He smiles, that real one that strips away all the cocky bullshit.
"That's enough for me, Brooklyn."
I roll my eyes.
"Call me that again and I'm punching the other side of your face."
He chuckles.
"There she is."
He leans in, and this time, when his lips brush mine, it's not fireworks and drama and a ballgown moment.
It's soft.
Careful.
Real.
And for the first time, it doesn't feel like I'm falling.
It feels like I'm choosing.
When we pull back, breath mingling in the quiet of my room, I glance at the little drawer.
Empty.
I think of the glass, the heat, the count in Spanish.
Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco.
A ritual of pain.
I take a slow breath.
"Rowan?"
"Yeah?"
"If I…want to do it again," I say, words shaky, "you have to promise me something."
His eyes sharpen instantly.
"Anything."
"You stop me," I whisper. "You get mad. You yell. You call my mom. You drag Lany and Gali. I don't care. Just…don't let me go there alone again."
He swallows hard, eyes glassy.
"Deal," he says. "And you promise you'll tell me before it gets that bad. Or at least let me sit with you while you feel like shit instead of trying to burn it out of your skin."
My throat tightens.
"Deal."
He pulls me into his chest again, arms firm, steady.
We stand there like that for a long time, wrapped in each other and in the quiet.
My scars are still there. Maggy is still out there. The world is still unfair and loud and sometimes cruel.
But I'm here. With my mom. With my sister. With the idiot who turned out to be my hero.
And for the first time in a very long time, the question that brought me to Nightfall Springs doesn't terrify me.
What does love feel like?
Maybe it feels like this.
Not perfect. Not painless. Not some Shakespeare tragedy where you die after three days of knowing someone.
Maybe it feels like choosing to stay.
With them.
With him.
With myself.
I crawl back into bed, dragging Rowan with me until he laughs and collapses beside me. He lies on top of the covers, one arm under his head, the other reaching for my hand.
Our fingers intertwine.
"Sleep, warrior," he murmurs. "We've got a lot of ass to kick when you're better."
A tired smile tugs at my lips.
"Maggy first," I mumble.
"Maggy first," he agrees.
I close my eyes, listening to his breathing, the faint hum of the ocean outside, the distant sound of my family moving through the house.
For the first time in a long time, the darkness doesn't feel like it's swallowing me.
It feels like rest.
And as I drift off, one thought stays with me, soft and stubborn.
I woke up this time in my room.
Next time, I'm waking up in my life.