The rest of her words fade as darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. The room spins, and for a moment, I let it all go—the pain, the lies, the weight of pretending. I collapse back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as realization hits me like a physical blow.

This is how it's going to be.

Nothing will change.

She'll keep going back.

He'll keep tearing us apart.

And I'll keep ending up here—with broken bones, a broken spirit, and nothing but lies to stitch me back together.

Hours blur together under harsh fluorescent lights. I shift on the bed and flex my wrist experimentally. Sharp pain shoots up my arm, pulling a hiss through clenched teeth. My head throbs in time with my pulse, each beat a reminder of why I'm here. The doctor who walks in looks like he's been practicing medicine longer than I've been alive. His expression is carefully neutral as he studies his clipboard, but there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach clench.

"How are you holding up, Nathaniel?"

"Been better." My voice sounds like I gargled gravel.

"I'll bet. You took quite a fall." His tone makes it clear he's calling bullshit on that story. "Listen, Nathaniel⁠⁠—"

"Nate," I correct him. "Just Nate."

He nods, something softening in his expression. "Nate, I wanted to see you before your mother comes back. You're over eighteen now, so this information can be shared with just you."

He starts examining the x-rays, but I already know what's coming. I can read it in the careful way he chooses his words, in the gentle tone that speaks of years of delivering bad news.

"Your wrist is fractured, so are two of your fingers, and there's definitely a significant concussion." He pauses, eyes meeting mine. "But from your x-rays, I noticed something else."

My throat closes, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

"You've got older injuries—breaks and contusions—that didn't heal properly. It looks like they've been re-injured multiple times. In fact, that wrist looks like it's already had fresh fractures only weeks old." The weight of his gaze feels like another bruise forming. "I need to ask this," he says, voice gentle but firm. "Is someone hurting you repeatedly?"

The question hits like a sucker punch, but I keep my face blank. Years of practice make it easy.

"No," I say, my voice steady, rehearsed. "It's from football. I'm a quarterback. I've been playing for years. Injuries happen."

He doesn't look convinced. Leaning forward slightly, his voice drops lower.

"Nate, I've been a doctor for over twenty-five years. I've seen football injuries. These don't look like that."

I open my mouth to argue, to spin another lie, but the words die in my throat.

I'm so fucking tired of lying.

Dr. Colson reads my silence, sees the truth in my inability to meet his eyes.