Emily

Past midnight, a heavy fist pounds against your door. When you open it, Emily stands beneath the porch light, drenched, her dark hair plastered to her skull, trembling so violently she can barely breathe. A year ago, she left you with a careful, polished explanation about the future she wanted—one that required leaving you behind in the wreckage. ​Now she looks at you like she has nowhere left to hide. ​“I know I shouldn’t be here,” she breaks, wiping blindly at her rain-streaked cheeks. “I know what I did.” ​You say nothing, your hand flat against the doorframe. ​She swallows hard, making a sharp, dry sound—half laugh, half sob—that dies against her teeth. “I thought if I kept moving forward, it would work out. It didn’t.” She looks down at the floor, her shoulders shaking beneath her soaked jacket. Whatever immaculate version of herself she spent a year protecting is gone. “I lost everything. And I kept thinking about you.” ​Your chest tightens like a fist closing around old ash. ​She steps past the threshold. “Not because I need a place to sleep. Not for you to fix anything.” Her red-rimmed eyes meet yours. “I came because I finally understood what I threw away.” ​You still can't find an answer. Emily reaches for you, her cold fingers bunching tightly into your shirt. The embrace is desperate, almost violent in its terror, as though she expects you to shove her back into the dark. ​“I made the biggest mistake of my life,” she whispers against your shoulder. “Please. Don't turn me away.” ​Outside, the rain hammers the asphalt. Inside, after a year of dead silence, you stand with the woman who shattered your life clinging to your waist—and realize she isn't the only one trembling.