By the time Brooklyn pulled into our driveway, I had cried myself into that strange, hollow silence that came after too many tears.

The house looked exactly the same as it always did, and for some reason, that made me want to cry all over again. The porch light was still on even though it was morning. My mother's little clay pumpkins were lined along the steps. One of Hudson's sneakers sat abandoned by the front door because, apparently, bringing both shoes inside had been too ambitious for him. Everything was ordinary. Everything was familiar. Everything was waiting.

But I wasn't the same girl who had left three days ago.

Harper squeezed my hand before we got out of the car. "You ready?"

I looked at the front door. "No."

Brooklyn turned off the engine. "That's okay. We're going in anyway."

I was too tired to argue.

The second we stepped inside, warmth wrapped around me. Not just from the house, but from the smell of soup simmering in the kitchen, from the soft hum of the stove, from the blanket my mother had left folded over the couch, from the sound of my father's footsteps before I even saw him.

My parents were waiting in the kitchen.

Of course they were.

My mother stood near the counter with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, like she had been holding herself together with both hands. My father was by the stove, stirring a pot of soup with more concentration than soup had probably ever required. The second they saw me, both of their faces changed.

Mom looked relieved.

Dad looked heartbroken.

That almost did me in.

"There she is," Dad said softly.

I tried to smile.

I don't think it worked.

Mom crossed the kitchen first. She didn't say anything. She just pulled me into her arms, and the second her hand touched the back of my head, I felt five years old again. I felt small and tired and scared, like maybe if I stayed there long enough, she could fix the whole world by holding me tight enough.

"Oh, my sweet girl," she whispered.

I closed my eyes against her shoulder.

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

I didn't argue.

Dad came over after a moment, his hand warm and heavy on my back. He kissed the top of my head, then gently cupped my cheek when Mom finally let me go.

"You need food," he said.

I shook my head. "I'm not hungry."

"I made soup."

"I know."

"Your favorite."

"I know, Dad."

His face softened in that terrible way again. "Just a few bites?"

I looked toward the stairs.

Every part of my body wanted my room. My bed. Darkness. A closed door. A place where no one was looking at me and waiting for me to fall apart. I loved them. God, I loved them. But their love felt too bright right then. Too warm. Too much against skin that already hurt.

"I just want to sleep," I whispered.

Mom's face crumpled a little.

Dad looked down at the pot like the soup had personally betrayed him.

Brooklyn dropped her keys on the counter. "She slept in a hospital chair, Dad. I'm honestly impressed she's still upright."

Harper rubbed my back. "Maybe she can eat when she wakes up."

Dad nodded quickly, but I could tell he was disappointed. Not in me. Never in me. Just in the helplessness of it all. He had made soup because feeding people was how he loved them. Because he couldn't fix Riley's memory or take away the look on my face, but he could chop vegetables and stir broth and keep something warm for when I came home.

"I'll save it," he said.

My throat tightened. "I'm sorry."

His eyes lifted to mine immediately. "No. Don't you apologize."

"But you made it and I—"

"I made it because I love you." His voice was gentle, but firm. "Not because you owe me anything."

That was when my eyes burned again.

I was so tired of crying. I was tired of grief sneaking up on me through ordinary kindness.

Mom brushed hair away from my face. "Go upstairs. Shower if you can. Sleep as long as you need."

I nodded.

Hudson appeared in the hallway just then, still in sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked half-asleep and deeply uncomfortable with the amount of emotion happening in the kitchen.

"You're alive," he said.

A weak laugh left me. "Barely."

"I put your phone charger in your room."

Brooklyn pointed at him. "See? Love."

Hudson shrugged. "Also, I stole it two days ago and figured this was a good time to return it."

For the first time all morning, I almost smiled.

"Thanks, Huds."

He nodded, then walked over and hugged me with one arm, quick and awkward. "Riley's gonna remember you."

The kitchen went quiet.

Hudson pulled back, looking immediately like he regretted saying it.

I stared at him.

He swallowed. "I mean... I think he will."

My heart twisted.

Everyone looked at me carefully, as if waiting to see whether hope would help me or destroy me.

I didn't know either.

"I hope so," I whispered.

Hudson nodded once, then disappeared toward the living room like feelings had become too dangerous.

I turned toward the stairs before anyone could say anything else. Harper started to follow, but Mom touched her arm and shook her head gently.

"Let her," she whispered.

So they did.

They let me go.

I climbed the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the exhaustion had only been waiting until I was safe to finally settle into my bones. By the time I reached my bedroom door, I could barely keep my eyes open.

My room looked exactly how I had left it.

That hurt too.

The sweater I had tried on and rejected the night of Riley's accident was still draped over the chair. A half-empty water bottle sat on my nightstand. My journal was open on my desk, the pen lying across the page like I had only stepped away for a second.

And on the wall above my bed was a photo of me and Riley.

I stopped in the doorway.

We were sixteen in the picture, sitting on the curb outside his house with matching blue tongues from slushies. Riley was laughing at something I had said, and I was looking at him instead of the camera.

Of course I was.

I walked toward it slowly.

My fingers touched the edge of the frame.

"You're going to remember," I whispered, because I needed the room to hear it. I needed the universe to hear it. I needed some part of Riley, wherever it had gone, to hear it too. "You have to."

But the photo didn't answer.

Riley didn't answer.

No one did.

I stepped away, grabbed the softest pajamas I owned, and went to shower. I stood under the hot water until my skin turned pink and the hospital smell finally faded from my hair. I cried once, briefly, quietly, with my forehead against the tile and one hand pressed over my mouth so no one downstairs would hear.

Then I stopped.

Not because I felt better.

Because I was too tired to keep going.

When I crawled into bed, my phone was already plugged in beside me. Hudson had left it there after all, the cord neatly wrapped around the charger like that made up for stealing it. There was a glass of water on my nightstand too, and a folded note from Mom.

Soup is in the fridge. We're here if you need anything. I love you.

I stared at the note until the words blurred.

Then I unlocked my phone.

No messages from Riley.

Of course there weren't.

He didn't know to text me.

He didn't know that every time one of us got home, we sent the same stupid message we had been sending for years.

Alive.

I opened our old thread anyway.

The last message from him was still there.

Proud of you.

From the night he rejected me.

From the night before everything ended.

I stared at it until my chest hurt.

Then, because grief made people do strange and pathetic things, I typed a message I knew he would not understand if I sent it.

I'm home.

I didn't send it.

I erased it.

Then I typed something else.

Alive.

My thumb hovered over the button.

For one painful second, I wanted to send it so badly that my whole body ached with it. I wanted Riley to see it. I wanted him to roll his eyes and send back some ridiculous response. I wanted him to know I had made it home because once, that had mattered to him.

But this Riley might not know what it meant. This Riley might wake up to my message and feel confused. This Riley might ask why I was telling him that.

And I didn't think I could survive it.

So I erased that too.

I locked my phone and set it facedown on the nightstand.

Then I curled onto my side, facing the photo on the wall.

My body was exhausted, but my mind refused to stop. It kept replaying the hospital room. Riley holding the photograph from the play. Riley asking if I would come back. Riley saying my name like it was something new. Riley looking at me like leaving hurt him too, even if he didn't know why.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin.

Downstairs, I could hear the muffled sounds of my family moving around. Cabinets opening. Low voices. Brooklyn probably telling someone to stop hovering. Harper probably making tea. Dad probably putting soup into containers because he needed to do something with his hands.

They were all trying to keep me together.

I wish I knew how to help them.

I wish I knew how to help Riley.

I wish I knew how to help myself.

But I didn't.

So I closed my eyes.

And just before sleep finally pulled me under, I imagined a five-year-old boy in a red velvet cape standing in front of me with a crooked smile and a flower crown on his head.

I can fight it if you want.

A sob caught quietly in my throat.

"Please," I whispered into my pillow.

And then, for the first time in what felt like days, I slept in my own bed.