Addiction| 18+

12| Breathe

Grey

The elevator hummed around us, the quiet stretching thin. She was staring at the floor again, her hands lightly trembling even though she tried to hide it.

I should've looked away.
Given her space.
Done the responsible thing.

But all I could see was last night.

The image hit me hard—harder than it had any right to—and suddenly breathing felt tight again.

Her collapsed on the bathroom floor.
Her hands shaking.
Blood on her palms.
That empty look in her eyes like she'd already gone somewhere I couldn't reach.

I swallowed.

I'd never forget the sound she made when I pulled her up from the tiles. It wasn't a cry. It wasn't fear. It was something worse.

It was resignation.

Like she'd decided she wasn't worth saving.

My jaw clenched just remembering it.

I had walked into that room thinking the worst thing I'd face was a conversation we'd both avoid later. Instead, I found her kneeling against the counter, breaths shallow, eyes unfocused, pain carved into every line of her body.

And for the first time in a long damn time, I panicked.

Not the kind of panic that shows.
The kind that hits your spine—cold, sharp—and forces you to move before your brain catches up.

I didn't think about anything except getting her to stop shaking.

Getting the blade out of her hand.
Getting her to breathe.

But the moment she'd whispered, "I'm sorry," everything in me snapped.

Sorry?
As if she'd done something wrong.
As if her existence was a burden.

I bent my head now, staring at the numbers ticking down on the elevator screen. The memory clung to the back of my mind like smoke.

If I had been a minute later...
If she'd been more determined...
If I hadn't heard my phone ring...

I didn't let myself finish the thought.

The elevator dinged.

She flinched at the sound—barely, but I caught it.

I forced my voice steady. "We'll head home."

She nodded again, quiet, keeping her eyes on the ground as we stepped out.

But I wasn't done.
Not with last night.
Not with the truth tightening around my ribs.

As we walked toward the car, I let my thoughts finish what I'd been avoiding:

I had never been afraid of losing anything in my life.
Not my company.
Not my reputation.
Not even my own damn safety.

But last night—
seeing her on that floor—

That was the first time I had ever been afraid of losing someone. And the part that terrified me most? I wasn't supposed to care about her at all.

But I did.

More than I should.
More than I wanted to admit.
More than she'd probably ever believe.

I glanced at her as she stepped into the car. Small. Quiet. Trying so hard to pretend she wasn't breaking.

I shut the door behind her, sealing her inside before the world could touch her again. I won't let that happen again, I told myself.

Even if she never knows what it did to me.