On the one hand: Oh, thank God, he knows me so well, he loves me, he has my back. On the other: I just got out of detox. He said he was sorry about the pills. What is he thinking?

“I don’t know if—” I start, but then the words, they don’t matter anymore. Whatever I was going to say doesn’t matter.

He holds up a velvet box. Not a pill bottle.

A bit of Yoko comes to me, slices right into my heart:

Each time we don’t say

what we want to say

we’re dying.

I want to say to Drew: You can’t save me.

I want to say: I wish it were a pill. I hate myself for that.

But I don’t. Because he keeps his eyes on mine as he opens the box. “It’s small.” His lips turn down a little, uncertain. “I hope that’s okay.”

Nestled inside the black velvet is a tiny teardrop diamond, just a sliver of sparkle, hanging from a thin gold chain. I know he spent everything he had on this. For me.

I die. For the fiftieth time this week. I die.

You can’t save me.

I’m not worth saving.

“It’s beautiful,” I say instead.

Drew leans his forehead against mine. “From now on, these are the only kinds of diamonds I will give you. I promise.”

I wish this was enough. That he was enough.

I wish I didn’t still want a pill.

“Hannah.” His voice is rough. “When … when I said I had a diamond for you. For a second, you seemed like…” His eyes fly to mine. “Would you have taken it? If it weren’t a necklace?”

My eyes fill. I nod. “Yes. I’m sorry. Yes.”

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. It takes time. I’m here. Always. I’ll carry you. I told you that before. I meant it.”

I shake my head. “And I told you before—you can’t carry me.”

“Hannah, I would carry you across the damn universe if you needed it.”

It is the perfect thing to say. I know that. I feel how perfect it is.

But if there is anything they made clear in detox, it was this: I’m on my own. As per fucking usual. No one can kick this for me. I have to do it myself. I have to not wish a pill were in a velvet box.

“But you can’t, Drew. You can’t get sober for me. I don’t deserve you. This.” I put my hand over his, over the box, and push it away.

“Yes, you do,” he insists.

“You want me to tell you I’ll never use again,” I say.

“Yes.”