Behind Closed Doors (New Version)

Chapter 96

Olivia's pov
(Same day as chapter 95)

months.

That's how long it's been. I don't know how I know that, but I do. It feels like a blink and an eternity all at once, like I've been stuck in this space between awake and asleep for too long. It's hard to describe where I am—everything is dark, quiet. But in the darkness, there are flashes. Moments where I feel something, hear something, but it's distant, like I'm underwater and the world above me is muffled.

I think it's Jenna I hear sometimes. Her voice cuts through the quiet, soft and broken. She's crying a lot, I think. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe it's all in my head.

I can't tell if this is real or a dream anymore. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating, disconnected from everything, like my body doesn't belong to me. Other times, I can feel every ache, every weight of whatever is keeping me here.

It's terrifying.

I want to wake up. I want to move, to scream, to tell someone I'm still here. But my body won't listen. It's like I'm trapped inside myself, and no matter how hard I try, I can't break free.

There are moments, though—moments where the darkness lifts just a little, and I feel something pull me back. It's Jenna. It's always Jenna. She's the only thing tethering me here, the only thing keeping me from slipping into the abyss completely.

I don't know if she knows that. God, I hope she knows that.

There are times when I can feel her hand in mine. Her touch is faint, but I feel it. I try to squeeze back, to let her know I'm still here, but I can't. My fingers won't move, and the frustration builds inside me until I think I might break apart from the sheer helplessness of it all.

It's maddening, being stuck in this limbo. I feel like I'm screaming inside, but no one can hear me.

I think about her a lot. I think about how I've failed her, how I left her to deal with all of this alone. I didn't mean to. I never wanted to hurt her. But I know I have. I can hear it in her voice whenever she speaks to me, feel it in the way she holds my hand, the way she sobs quietly beside me.

She's been through so much. I know she's struggling. I know she's scared. I can feel it radiating from her whenever she's near. I want to reach out, to tell her that I'm sorry, that I'm still fighting, that I haven't given up.

But I can't.

The darkness keeps pulling me back, and I'm not strong enough to fight it off all the time. It's like I'm drifting in and out of existence, hovering on the edge of waking up and falling into an endless sleep.

I'm scared too. I'm scared that one day I'll drift too far, and I won't be able to come back. I'm scared that Jenna will move on, that she'll stop waiting for me. And I wouldn't blame her if she did.

She deserves better than this.

I think about the baby sometimes. I know she's there, growing, living. I can almost feel it, even from here. That little piece of us, of Jenna and me. I wonder if Jenna talks to the baby. I hope she does. I want the baby to know how much I love her, even though I'm not there.

I can't help but feel guilty, though. I should be with her. I should be there for her and the baby, helping her through this pregnancy, holding her when she's scared, excited, tired. But instead, I'm stuck in this place, and she's left to carry everything on her own.

I hear voices sometimes, other people coming to visit. They sound worried, but they don't stay as long as Jenna. It's her voice that I hear the most. She's always here. She doesn't give up on me, even when I feel like I'm slipping further away.