Didn’t change that I felt like I had to prove myself.

“Trin?” Zayne’s voice was soft.

I shook my head. “People expect you to be self-sufficient and strong all the time. Like you’re supposed to be a shining example of rising above the suckage handed to you, or you’re there to serve some freaking purpose of proving how anyone can overcome odds if they’re just positive enough. Even people who have the same damn problems sometimes think that way.”

“Has Thierry or Matthew said anything like that to you?” he demanded in a way that made me worried for them.

“Not really. I mean, they taught me to not let it hold me back. So did my mom, but...” I started to scrub my hands over my face then realized they were caked in zombie blood. “I belonged to this vision support group a few years back. It was this online thing, and I wanted to know what others thought, you know, who were dealing with something similar. Most were great, but there were some who were so caught up in making sure everyone heard their opinions and how they dealt with things, that they never listened to anyone else. They were so busy telling everyone in the group how we should adapt or feel, or even how we should talk about how we’re feeling, or the challenges and—” I threw up my hands. “I don’t even know why I’m talking about this right now. We’re surrounded by dead stinky zombies.”

“There’s no more perfect time than now,” he said.

“Oh, I can think of many more perfect times that don’t involve brain matter.” I planted my hands on my hips. “Look, I just don’t want to be...”

A burden. A victim. A challenge. Someone to pity and coddle and worry about. Someone treated less than, even with the best intentions.

I took a breath. “I don’t know what to say. It’s late. I’m tired, and I have brains on me.”

“That’s okay. I know exactly what to say.”

“Goody,” I muttered.

“First off, I don’t give a crap about what some random person on the internet who appointed themselves the mouthpiece of everything thinks. You’ve proven a hundred times over that you’re independent and strong. You just jumped off that—” he gestured at the railing “—and didn’t think twice about it. Still wish you hadn’t done that, but whatever. You needing my help once or twice or five times in one night isn’t an indication of losing your independence.”

“Then what is it?”

His chest rose and then fell. “You’re doing the best that you can, Trinity.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. Those were the words I’d spoken to him when I’d told him about my eye condition. I’m doing the best that I can. I’d said that.