I push through the front door with haste. Nate looks up from the half-finished puzzle sprawled across the coffee table, concern flooding his face as his eyes meet mine. His brow furrows instantly, jaw tightening as he takes in my state. He's always been able to read me, to sense when something's wrong, and right now every cell in my body screams with wrongness.

I force myself past him, each step measured and careful, as though walking on glass. I feel his eyes tracking me, heavy with unasked questions. My lungs feel too small for my chest when I hear him ask Jake, "What the fuck happened?"

"She wasn't feeling great. Upset stomach or something," Jake replies, his casual tone a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.

I don't stop—can't stop.

Lingering would shatter the fragile composure I'm desperately clinging to. The stairs become my escape route, each step echoing my mounting panic until I reach my room and slam the door. My back slides down against the cold wood as my breathing fractures into quick, shallow gasps. The familiar tightening in my chest signals an approaching panic attack as the edges of my vision blur and darken. I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to anchor myself as the room tilts and spins around me.

Time hasn't dulled the pain—it's only taught me to hide it better. For twelve months, I've perfected the art of burying everything so deep that sometimes I almost believe my own lies. But the memories, when they surface, cut just as deep as they did that first day.

"Nora?" Nate's voice penetrates my solitude, gentle but unmistakably firm.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing him away. I can't let him see me like this, stripped of all my carefully constructed defenses.

"Go away," I manage, my voice barely a whisper. Rising unsteadily, I begin to pace, as if movement alone could dispel the shadows closing in.

"Nora, what's⁠⁠—"

"Nate!" My voice cracks like thin ice. "Just leave me alone."

The door creaks open, and he stands in the threshold, concern etched deep in the lines of his face. He doesn't enter, but his presence fills the space anyway, steady as a heartbeat.

"You're shaking," he observes, his voice soft as falling snow.

I turn away, but his words follow me. "Talk to me Len⁠—”

"I'm fine," I say, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. My trembling hands betray me, and I curl them into fists at my sides.

His footsteps whisper across the floor as he approaches, moving with the careful precision of someone approaching a wounded animal.

"Your eyes are red," he murmurs.

I feel naked under his scrutiny, as though he can see straight through to the fractured pieces I'm trying so desperately to hold together.