Survival

26. Fear is All You Have

Stephanie felt hollowed out. Completely done. There were no more words to be spoken. The realization had hit her like a ton of bricks and not even denial could penetrate the void in her head and her heart. She didn't have the luxury of thinking her parents may still be alive; she had the proof to confirm that she had no reason to hope anymore.

She almost, almost, didn't have the energy to feel self-conscious about her breakdown. Daniel shouldn't always have to be there when she couldn't handle the loneliness anymore. Yet he was, and had been twice before. The respectful, careful distance they constructed between them at all times had dissolved when she'd been attacked- bleeding and unable to draw breath, and again when, in the hospital, she'd been tired and hurting and unable to hold back any longer on her frustration and sadness. Just as he'd been there when she'd found out, not even fifteen minutes ago.

Daniel held her as if he was the only one keeping her from falling to pieces and disappearing. His angular arms were awkward around her, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was doing consoling the girl he admittedly barely knew, but couldn't not do it, regardless. Stephanie was grateful, though she couldn't confront that with her mind stuck on repeat. Her parents were dead.

When her chest, still recovering from her hospital visit the month before, started aching for a whole reason other than the pain in her heart, the shuddering sobs subsided.

Belatedly, she realized she'd soaked Daniel's shirt with tears, as much as she'd tried to curl into herself and keep her agony to herself. Half-pulled into his lap, she listened to the sure and steady beat of his heart, still strong and real under her head. The dizzy, floating sensation in her body faded as she concentrated on that rhythm on its own. She heaved a sigh, her eyelids stingingly raw, as fatigue weighted her muscles down and the shock devoid of feeling settled into her bones.

She realized that this couldn't be comfortable for him, but he hadn't so much as moved a muscle. Guiltily, she took solace in his embrace, registering his lack of movement as permission to just stay there a little longer. When she'd calmed down enough that she'd stopped shaking, Stephanie slipped out of Daniel's arms, dashing the salty traces from her face. Without so much as raising her eyes to meet his, she shuffled away from him to re-establish a safe space between them. She was afraid that, if she looked up, embarrassment would color her cheeks and he would look at her as if he pitied her.

That's never what she had wanted, from him or anyone else.

She crossed her ankles and tucked her knees up to her chest, sitting on the carpeted ground, her shoulders hunched over like she could protect herself from the world just by bearing her back to it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daniel's dark, steady gaze still on her, blessedly indiscernible. The set of his face was soft, sobered, but not showing any more emotion than usual. A tightness in her chest loosened. Daniel was predictable, safe. No matter what, it didn't seem his opinion of her would change.

He didn't say a word, didn't attempt to ask if she was okay- because somehow, she thought he could understand her just as well as she knew herself- nor did he cross the clear foot or two of space between them. Daniel just leaned against the couch, slowly, stiffly- the only thing that gave away his uncertainty, and returned his eyes to the TV, lingering only a moment longer on her.

Stephanie rested her chin on her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs while Daniel sat with his long limbs stretched out in front of him, totally comfortable but completely aware of the space boundary between them. She tucked up tighter, eyeing the carpet stretching from her to him.

Daniel may be safe, but Stephanie wasn't, and she couldn't get attached to him in the way that she was. She was danger and uncertainty. She couldn't afford for anything to happen to him because of her. The space between them had to remain intact.