Page 34 of The Edge Of Us

That sound—that tiny, broken plea—shattered something in me.

“Corinne, think of Astrid,” my sister said, rushing in behind them. “Think of Kyle. Think of us.”

“I do! I think about them all the time! I’m failing them every day! I can’t even breathe anymore! I don’t know how to fix this!”

“Let us help you,” my mother begged. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Kyle took another step, tears on his cheeks. “Mommy… please don’t go away.”

I looked at him—really looked at him. His little fists. His shaking lip. His big brown eyes full of fear.

That’s what pulled me back.

I collapsed. Backwards. Not off the ledge, but into my mother’s arms as she lunged and dragged me inside.

I crumbled onto the floor, sobbing, shaking. My mother held me like she did when I was small, rocking me gently, whispering,

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe now.”

My father knelt beside us, his hand steady on my back.

My sister scooped Kyle into her arms, holding him close, whispering reassurances into his ear as he clung to her, confused and scared.

“You’re not alone,” my mother whispered again. “We’re here. We’re going to help you heal.”

And in that moment—collapsed on the floor, wrapped in arms that wouldn’t let me go—I let myself fall apart.

Because this time, I wasn’t falling alone.

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Chapter 22

Corine

The morning light crept into my bedroom like an uninvited guest, slipping through the gaps in my curtains and painting everything in warm, golden hues. But inside me, there was only cold. Stillness. Numbness that clung to my bones like frostbite. My heart felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry—empty and brittle.

The images from last night were branded into my mind: the open window, the weightlessness of standing on the edge, the sound of Kyle’s small voice piercing through the fog, and my mother’s arms wrapped around me, dragging me back to life. I had come so close. Too close.

And that terrified me more than anything.

I sat at the edge of my bed, my hands trembling as I reached for my phone. My finger hovered over the screen, pausing over a name I hadn’t called in months.

Dr. Michaels.

The last time we spoke, I told him I was fine. That I was managing. But that was a lie.

Swallowing hard, I pressed the call button and brought the phone to my ear.

It rang once. Twice.

Then—“Dr. Michaels speaking.”

My voice wavered. “It’s… Corinne. Corinne Holt”

A silence fell, soft and immediate. Then his voice returned, laced with careful concern. “Corinne. I’m glad to hear from you. How are you feeling today?”

How was I feeling? Like my soul had cracked down the middle. Like a ghost of a mother who almost left her babies behind. My voice broke as I answered, “I need help. I—I can’t do this anymore. Not on my own.”

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