Page 120 of The Devil's Canvas

My voice is barely a whisper. “There’s nothing left to fix.”

He doesn’t argue. He just leaves. And I don’t stop him. Because he’s right. Julian gave up everything so I could live. And all I’ve done is vanish.

Four months since I watched him vanish into the earth. Two since I stopped pretending I could survive it.

When the knock comes, I don't move. The door creaks open, followed by soft footsteps and a sharp gasp that barely registers.

"Ophelia?" Bella's voice wavers like it's already breaking.

I’m on the bathroom floor. The tub behind me is stained with blood from last night—maybe it was this morning. I’ve lost track. Of everything. The lights are off. Curtains closed.

I don’t look human. I haven’t in weeks. My skin is ash-gray. Lips cracked. There are deep bruises on my arms from where I’ve clawed at myself trying to feel something. My ribs show. My hair is matted. I smell like sweat and iron.

My collarbone—the mark—has been torn open more than once. I’ve tried everything to wake it up. Burned it. Carved around it. Bled for it. Nothing worked. It just sits there, cold and faded, like a tombstone etched into my skin.

“Dominic—get in here,” Bella calls, and her voice breaks mid-word.

He enters with Rosalind and Rhys on his heels. The sound of Bella sobbing is the only thing louder than the silence I’ve lived in.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dominic mutters, dropping to his knees. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”

I lift my gaze slowly. My eyes are hollow. My voice is a whisper. “Tried to make it stop.”

“Stop what?” Rhys demands, but it’s not anger—it’s desperation.

I hold up my hands. My wrists. My thighs. My chest. The scabs. The burns. The empty bottles of pills scattered on the floor. “Everything.”

“Ophelia, no.” Rosalind drops beside me, cradling my face in her hands. “You didn’t—please tell me you didn’t—”

“I did,” I breathe. “And I failed.”

“Why?” Bella chokes out. “Why would you—”

“Because I don’t want to be here without him,” I snap, suddenly too loud, too sharp. “I don't want to breathe if he’s not breathing. I don’t want to wake up. I want the pain to end.”

Rhys has tears in his eyes. Dominic turns away. Rosalind can’t stop whispering “I’m here, I’m here,” like maybe if she says it enough, I’ll believe it.

Bella falls to her knees beside me. Her hands hover over mine like she’s afraid to touch me—afraid I’ll disappear.

Dominic pulls out his phone, voice low but urgent. “We’re getting you help. Real help. I’m not losing you too.”

“No.” My voice is raw, but steady.

Bella steps forward, eyes shining. “Ophelia, please—”

“No help.” I back away, hands trembling. “Nothing.”

“You need—”

“I need him!” I scream, and the sound cracks the silence open like glass under pressure.

Rhys opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off too. “You want to patch me up? Put me in some white room with humming lights and strangers who don’t know his name? That’s not healing. That’s pretending. And I won’t fucking do it.”

Bella’s crying again. Silent tears. Her hands are still hovering.

“I’m not sick. I’m grieving.” My voice cracks, but I don’t look away. “I lost my soulmate. I lost myself. I don’t want to be fixed. I want to disappear.”

Rosalind’s eyes fill, but she doesn’t speak. None of them do. Because now they see it—the depth of it. The void I’ve become. I’m not broken, I’m not sad, I’m not even depressed.

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