Page 236 of Irreversible

“You know I do.” I step closer, twisting my long hair over my shoulder. “If you need help moving, I can fly in at any time. I’m in the process of moving myself. We bought a fixer-upper, about an hour east of San Francisco.”

“We?”

“Um, yeah.” Clearing my throat, I chew on my cheek. “Isaac. He’s…”

Everything.

But I can’t get the word out—it doesn’t feel right talking about my everything when Allison stands before me, sifting through the shattered remains ofhereverything.

“He’s the man I’m seeing,” I finish, glancing away. “We met…in captivity.”

Her eyes pop. “Oh.”

“Not exactly the start of a fairy tale, but things are…good. Really good.” I wait for her to flinch, to back away, to shut down and ice me out. Part of me feels the need to apologize, or at least to soften the edges of my misplaced confession. “I mean, we sort of?—”

“I’m so happy for you, Ev.”

My eyes fill with fresh tears. Authenticity laces her words as a smile blooms, shining back at me, real and raw. I steal another glance at the photograph as guilt and relief battle beneath my ribcage. “You’re not alone in this,” I whisper, the words wobbly but pure. My gaze slides back to hers. Heart thumping, I reach for her hand, linking our fingers together. “I’m here for you.”

Her bottom lip trembles as she squeezes my hand. “I never wanted you to be alone, either.God—I tried, I tried so hard to reach you, to be there when?—”

“I know,” I croak, a geyser of tears spilling free. “I wasn’t ready.”

That’s what makes this so painful.

No one was ready; no onepreparedfor this. This goes beyond apologies and surface-level strain. We’re not the same people.

And yet…we are.

I think about what Queenie said to me once:

“People grow, and people regress.When they grow, they’re becoming a better version of who they already are. And when they regress, it means they’re too scared to grow.”

But people don’t truly change—not at their core, not at their essence. Allison is still Allison, and I’m still Everly. What connected us once is still there. Our experiences and scars have marked us, defined us in ways we can’t undo…but maybe that’s not what matters anymore.

My face crumples as the truth settles in, clearer than ever.

I close the gap.

Her arms extend the moment my feet start to move, and I collapse against her chest, scooping her up into a hard-earned hug.

“I’m so sorry I left.” I hold her tight, tears dampening our collars. “I’m sorry I couldn’t forgive you fast enough. If I had done something different, maybe he’d still be?—”

“No.” Allison pulls back, taking my face between her palms. “It’s not your fault. None of this was your fault.”

My grief pours out in gulping, agonizing sobs. “H-he tried so hard to find you…to save you.”

And I watched him die; I watched him bleed out before my eyes. Another fragment of my past, gone with the wind.

I feel guilty. I feel pulverized.

Allison grips me by the biceps, her hands shaking as mascara streaks down her face. “Everly,” she murmurs. “He did the same for you.”

Grief is such a complicated thing.

It can crash over us like a heavy tide, pulling us under, only to release us with a sharp, cruel breath. Sometimes it’s quiet—an unspoken weight that lingers, subtle but constant. It can scream, or it can whisper, reminding us of what we’ve lost and what we can never reclaim. It doesn’t heal.

It teaches.

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