Page 44 of The Edge Of Us

A silence settles between us again.

I sit there, rubbing my palms against my knees. My brain feels slow, disconnected. But her presence is oddly calming. Not because she's comforting, but because she's... simple. There's no pressure to talk. No probing questions. No clipped words dressed in professional kindness.

Just... crayons and ducks.

After a while, she speaks again. "Did you cry today?"

My breath catches.

I glance at her. "Why would you ask that?"

She shrugs again, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "I cry a lot. I cried today when the nurse took my plushie to wash it. She promised to give it back, but it felt like lying."

I watch her for a moment. She's not joking. There's an innocence to her words, a strange purity I haven't seen in years.

"I cried too," I say finally, my voice barely a whisper.

She nods solemnly. "Did it help?"

"No," I say honestly. "Not even a little."

She seems to think about that. Then goes back to her coloring. "Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I cry so hard my chest hurts. But I think it's better than not crying. Because the not-crying days feel like screaming in a bottle."

I stare at her.

That hits harder than I expect.

"Yeah," I whisper. "Screaming in a bottle. That's exactly what it feels like."

She looks over at me again, this time with a little smile. "I knew you'd get it. You look like someone who knows."

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I do."

The evening passes slowly. She colors. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. For the first time in days, I don't feel completely alone. And it's strange. Because we're not talking about family. Or trauma. Or what led us here. We're just... coexisting.

Later, she brings over her coloring book.

"Do you want to help me with this page?"

I glance at it. A castle and a dragon, half-finished. "Sure."

She sits next to me, our shoulders almost touching. She hands me a purple crayon. "I want to make the dragon sparkly."

I take it. "Purple is a strong color."

She grins. "That's why it's perfect."

As we color in silence, something softens in my chest. The tension doesn't leave completely-but there's a moment, briefand flickering, where I don't feel the crushing weight of everything I've lost.

Just a crayon in my hand and a girl who thinks ducks are happy.

"I'm glad your room flooded," she says suddenly.

I look at her, surprised.

She shrugs. "You're nice. You don't talk too loud. And your sadness isn't scary."

That almost makes me cry. I blink quickly to push it back.

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