Page 85 of Back to You
I lift my head, meeting her eyes.
“But love isn’t just about feeling it. It’s about choosing it.”
I flinch, exhaling sharply.
She reaches out, squeezing my arm. “You deserve someone who fights for you.”
The sadness shifts, and in its place, anger claws its way to the surface. Not at Mariana, but at myself for waiting, for breaking apart every night, hoping she’d come back, while she’s out there pretending I never fucking mattered.
For holding onto her like she’s the only thing keeping me whole, when she’s the one who let go first. For loving her when she doesn’t love me enough to stay.
I inhale sharply, blinking against the burn behind my eyes. Analyse doesn’t say anything else. She just lets me sit in the silence—a silence that doesn’t crush, a silence that doesn’t drown. And for a brief moment, I feel a little lighter.
CHAPTER 39
Mariana
The first knock is soft, patient. I ignore it. The second knock is a little louder. Not urgent, just expectant. I sink deeper into the couch, pulling my blanket tighter around me. Maybe if I don’t move, she’ll think I’m asleep.
Silence, then…three soft taps, then another. I freeze.
Our childhood pattern. The same way Anna used to knock on my bedroom door when we were little, when she wanted me to come out but knew I’d be stubborn about it. I close my eyes. She’s not going to leave.
“Mariana.” Her voice is neither forceful nor exasperated, just firm and unwavering.
I stay still, my fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket, gripping it like an anchor. More silence. Then, one final knock.
“I brought you coffee.”
My throat tightens. I don’t need coffee—I already have a half-drunk, cold cup sitting on the table. But I know Anna…she’s waiting. Not pressuring, not forcing, just waiting.
I exhale slowly, forcing my body to move even though it feels like I’m carrying bricks on my back. My legs ache from staying curled up too long, my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, but I still walk to the door and open it.
Anna stands on the other side, arms crossed, her dark eyes scanning my face like she’s taking inventory of the damage. Her expression softens, her brows lift, and her lips press together.
“You look like hell.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”
She holds up a to-go cup. “I brought you coffee.”
I glance at it, then at her. “I already have coffee.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, but you didn’t have this coffee. This one has extra sugar, just how you like it. And it comes with me forcing you to leave your house, which I know you haven’t done in days.”
I blink at her. “I?—”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, stepping past me and grabbing my coat from the hook by the door. “Get your shoes. We’re going out.”
“Anna, I don’t really…”
She turns, fixing me with a look so sharp it makes my throat close up.
Then, softer, her voice dipping, careful but knowing:
“Mari, I know you. You’re stressed. You’re barely eating, barely moving. And I know what that does to you. When was the last time you actually took care of yourself? Stress triggers flares, and you know it.”
I swallow hard, looking away. I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t want to think about my body, about the way I’ve been ignoring it, about how I’ve been feeling worse but blaming it all on grief.
