“Go home to Samoa, Aleki. Let the sea cleanse your hurt and your roots remind you of who you’ve always been.”

I blink hard. “And then what?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Remember who the hell you are.”

Chapter 15

Magnolia Steel

The blinds are closed, and the TV casts a dull glow across my living room. I’m buried beneath a mountain of blankets that haven’t seen a wash cycle in weeks.

I couldn’t tell you when I last stepped into daylight. Sometimes the rays sneak through the cracks in the blinds—too happy, too bright—like they can’t understand that I want no part of them.

I’m surrounded by barely touched takeout containers and a trash can overflowing with tissues. So many tissues. An empty wine glass sits on the coffee table—glass number… I’m not sure. Not enough to make me forget him. Only enough to blur the edges.

The TV is on YouTube autoplay, stuck in its current obsession: Alex Sebring’s rugby highlights. I’ve seen this one already. Twice. Doesn’t matter. I’ll watch him again.

He’s electric.

Fast. Brutal. Commanding. Every time he charges down the field with the ball, it hits me right in the chest. He played like he had something to prove—like every second mattered. The commentators call him The Wall. A beast. Unstoppable.

He told me he played professional rugby, and that he was sort of a big deal. But I didn’t know I was in love with a damn legend.

To the rest of the world, he’s a superstar. But to me, he was… mine.

And now he’s not.

I haven’t cried today. That’s something at least. But not because I’m fine or getting better. Because there’s nothing left in me.

The sadness settled into my bones days ago. I don’t notice the sting of tears anymore.

I can’t remember the last time I showered, and I’ve eaten nothing of substance since… well, I can’t say when.

Violet brought soup this week. I think. It could’ve been last week. My stomach growls like it’s trying to remind me I still exist, but I ignore it. Everything tastes like nothing.

The front door opens, no knock. Violet stomps into my living room with the energy of a woman on a mission. “I swear to God. I’m gonna have to peel you off that fucking couch with a spatula.”

She stops. One sniff of the air and her face contorts like she’s stepped into a landfill. I don’t turn my head, but I hear the disgusted noise she makes. “Jesus, Mags. You reek like gym socks, old tears, and emotional damage.”

“Go away.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

She crosses the room, yanks the remote out of my hand, and turns off the TV. The silence is deafening.

“Hey! I was watching that.”