The days stretch on, blurring into one another. The sterile white walls of the hospital feel softer now, less glaring. My mind still feels fragile, like glass held together with shaking hands, but something is shifting. The voices are quiet. The rabbit doesn't follow me in my dreams anymore. I don't know when the whispers stopped. It's as if they just… faded away, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the murmur of footsteps outside my door. My head feels clearer than it has in weeks, but the clarity brings no comfort. It brings pain. I sit on the edge of my bed, the notebook balanced on my knees. The nurse still brings it every morning, reminding me to write, but I don't. I just stare at the blank pages, my mind pulling me somewhere else. Somewhere real. It starts with a flash of color. A memory. The sunlight is soft, golden as it spills through the window of our apartment. Lily sits in her chair, curled up under the knitted blanket her mother gave her, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her thin hands. Her skin is pale now—too pale—and there are dark circles under her eyes, ones that don't fade. She smiles when she sees me, but it's tired, strained. Still, she tries. She always tries. "You're staring again," she says, her voice quiet but teasing. I don't answer right away. I can't. Her hair has thinned, falling around her shoulders in brittle strands, but somehow, she's still beautiful. Too beautiful. "Do you want some tea?" she asks. "I can make you some." "No." My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. "You should be resting." Lily laughs softly, shaking her head as she sets the mug down on the table beside her. "I don't want to rest, Adam. I've done enough resting for one lifetime." "You don't have to do this," I whisper, but she's already pushing herself up out of the chair, steadying herself against the armrest. My chest tightens as I watch her. She moves carefully, every step slow and deliberate, as though the weight of her own body is too much. She catches me watching and gives me that look—that Lily look—like I'm being silly again. "Stop hovering. I'm not going to break." But she's lying. I can see it. She's already breaking. The memory shifts, skipping like a stone on water. I'm sitting on the floor, my back against the couch. My knees are pulled to my chest, my hands clutching at my hair as I try to breathe through the panic clawing at my ribs. My heart is pounding, too fast, too loud. And then she's there. Lily kneels in front of me, her hand trembling as she rests it against my cheek. "Adam," she says softly, her voice calm despite how weak she looks. "It's okay. You're okay." I shake my head, my eyes burning. "I can't—Lily, I can't—" "Shh." She presses her forehead to mine, her breath soft and warm against my skin. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe." Her hand slips into mine, her fingers cool and thin, but steady. She holds on tight, and slowly, my breathing evens out. I cling to her, my tears spilling onto her shoulder, and she doesn't let go. She was the one comforting me. Even then. Even when she was slipping away. I come back to the present with a gasp, my body shaking, my face wet with tears. The notebook slips from my lap, falling to the floor with a soft thud. I clutch my head, the sobs coming before I can stop them. "Lily," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Oh, God, Lily…" The memories won't stop. Her frail body curled up on the bed. The sound of her breathing—shallow and uneven—as I sat beside her in the dark, too afraid to move, too afraid to leave. Her funeral. Joel's arm around my shoulders as I stood in front of the casket, numb and empty, unable to understand how the world could keep moving when she was gone. It's all there now, every moment I tried to forget, every piece of her I buried so deep that I convinced myself she wasn't dead. That she was still waiting for me. I curl forward, my forehead pressing to my knees as I sob, my body wracked with grief. "I'm sorry," I whisper to no one. "I'm so sorry, Lily." The cabin, the rabbit, the whispers—they were never real. They were pieces of my mind twisting itself into something I could cling to. A lie I told myself to make the truth bearable. But the truth is unbearable. She's gone. And I don't know who I am without her. Hours pass—I don't know how many—before I feel the weight of a hand on my shoulder. I look up to see Joel standing there, his face lined with grief but steady. He doesn't say anything. He just sits beside me on the bed, letting me cry until there's nothing left. "Lily's gone," I say finally, my voice hollow. "She's gone, Joel." Joel nods, his voice quiet. "I know." I stare down at my shaking hands, my chest aching. "It hurts." "I know," he says again. "But you don't have to carry it alone." The words settle over me, soft and heavy, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the silence doesn't feel so cruel. The days feel longer now, heavier. There's no rabbit in the corner of my eye, no whispers to fill the silence, no symbols crawling on the walls. The hallucinations are gone, but their absence doesn't bring relief. It's worse. The quiet presses in on me like a weight I can't lift. It's a vast, empty space, and I can't escape it. I lie in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint until my eyes blur. I try to focus on the hum of the lights or the faint footsteps in the hallway, anything to anchor myself, but it's no use. Joel visits every day. He walks into the room like a ghost of himself, his face pale, his shoulders sagging with the weight he's been carrying. But it's his face—the scars—that I can't stop staring at. The bruising along his jaw turned to yellow, but the cut on his temple remains an angry red line, deep and unhealed. The first time I see it, I look away. I can't bear it. "Adam," Joel says quietly as he sits in the chair beside my bed. His voice is steady, but there's a fragility to it, like he's holding himself together just for me. I don't respond. I don't look at him. My eyes stay fixed on my hands, my fingers twisting the edge of the blanket until the fabric frays. I know he's watching me, waiting for me to speak, but I can't. The words won't come. "I'm okay," Joel says after a while, as though reading my thoughts. "Don't worry about me." I let out a broken laugh, bitter and soft. "You're not okay." My voice sounds foreign—hoarse, flat, empty. "You shouldn't be." Joel exhales sharply, but I don't look up. I can't look at him and see the scars I left. The cabin feels closer now, its weight pressing on me even though it's miles away. I can still see the hammer in my hands, the ropes around Joel's wrists, the blood smearing his skin. I did that. Joel shifts in his chair, his voice softer now. "Adam… you weren't yourself." "That doesn't matter," I snap, my voice shaking. I clench my fists in the blanket, my chest tightening. "I hurt you. I—" My words break apart, sharp and jagged as they leave me. "I don't deserve your forgiveness." Joel doesn't argue. He just sits there quietly, watching me fall apart. That's almost worse than him yelling. At least if he yelled, I'd know he felt something other than pity. I finally glance up, just for a second, and see the cut on his face again. My stomach twists violently. I look away, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Joel clears his throat, his voice steady. "I'm not leaving you, Adam. I'm not giving up on you." I close my eyes tightly, trying to block him out, but the tears come anyway, slipping down my cheeks unchecked. "You should," I whisper. "You should leave. You'd be better off not having to deal with me." Joel's voice hardens, a rare edge cutting through his usual calm. "Don't say that. Don't you ever say that." I open my eyes, staring at him as he leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He looks exhausted, the shadows under his eyes darker than ever, but there's a fire there—a stubborn determination that I don't understand. "You're my brother," he says, his voice low and firm. "You think I'm just going to walk away because it's hard? Because you're hurting? You were there for me when I needed you, Adam. You're still here, even if you don't believe it. And I'm going to keep showing up for you." I stare at him for a long moment, my tears falling harder now, silent and unrelenting. "I don't know how to fix this," I whisper. "I don't know how to fix myself." Joel leans back, his gaze steady. "You don't have to fix everything right now. Just start small. One step at a time." The days stretch on, and Joel keeps coming. Sometimes he talks to me about nothing—sports, his job, the weather—like it's normal, like we're sitting on his couch instead of in a sterile hospital room. Other days, he just sits there, flipping through a magazine or sipping coffee, letting the silence settle. I don't tell him, but I look forward to those moments. The sound of him turning pages or tapping his foot quietly against the floor makes the room feel a little less empty. But every time I look at him, at the scar that hasn't fully healed, the guilt claws at me again. Lily is gone. Joel carries the weight of what I did. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to face either truth. One night, after the nurse checks on me and dims the lights, I sit up in bed, staring at the notebook on the table. It's mostly empty, except for a few shaky sentences I barely remember writing. I pick up the pen and write something I don't fully understand until I see the words staring back at me: I'm still here. The words look small, insignificant. But they're real. For now, that's enough.