Page 71 of Icebound Hearts

She barely said anything when we talked on the phone two nights ago. She doesn’t anymore. Not about this. Not about how it feels. She’s tired. I can hear it in every pause, every breath.

All she said was, “There’s time to back out.” Like I could.

She’s my little sister—the only person who’s known every version of me and never stopped seeing someone worth believing in. She believed in me before I had any idea who I was. I’m giving her my stem cells. But if I could give her everything—my strength, my future, my lungs, my heart—I would.

I close my eyes for a second and try to breathe through the anxiety. It hums beneath my ribs like an engine idling, waiting to roar. My hand finds Kat’s back on instinct, fingers brushing across warm skin.

She shifts slightly. “Are you okay?” Her voice is low and raspy, thick with sleep.

I nod. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” She props herself up on one elbow and looks at me. Her eyes are barely open, but they see straight through me. “Your chest is tight again. I can feel it.”

Of course she can. She always does.

I let out a long breath. “Just thinking.”

Kat moves closer, resting her head on my shoulder. Her hand finds my chest, like she’s trying to quiet whatever lives there.

“About tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t fill the silence. She never does. She just lays there with me, grounding me with her body, her breath, her presence. That’s her way. She doesn’t push. She anchors.

“I’m not scared of the surgery,” I say finally. My voice feels small. “I’m scared it won’t be enough.”

“It will be,” she whispers.

I glance down at her. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” she says, meeting my gaze. “But I believe it. And so does Sophia.”

That belief—it feels heavier than doubt, somehow. I swallow hard.

“She wouldn’t say it out loud, but I know she thinks… I’m all she has.”

“You are.”

The room goes still again. Not quiet, exactly—just thick. Like there’s meaning in every unspoken word between us. Kat runs her fingers across my ribs, slow and careful.

I speak without thinking. “Did I ever tell you what my dad said the day we found out she relapsed?”

Kat’s body tenses just slightly. “No.”

“He didn’t even look up from his laptop,” I say. “Just muttered something like, ‘It’s always something with that girl.’” My jaw clenches. “Like she was a burden.”

Kat sits up, cross-legged beside me now. There’s steel in her eyes even though her hair’s a mess and she’s still half-asleep.

“I’m going to say something, and I need you to hear me.”

I meet her eyes.

“You are not your father. And Sophia is not a burden.”

I nod, throat tight. The words hit harder than I expect.

“She’s lucky to have you,” Kat says, softer now. “You don’t talk about it, but you’ve practically raised her.”

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