Page 55 of Second Sin

Wide open. Raw.

A flicker of grief buried so deep it’s fused with her bones. Strength laced with exhaustion. And something else too—something sharp and quiet and aching. Something that begs me not to look away.

I don’t.

I couldn’t if I tried.

Her lips part, like she might say more, but nothing comes. Just that look. Like she’s handing me every cracked piece of herself without knowing if I’ll take them.

And then, softly, she says, “It doesn’t matter how hard you try. Doesn’t matter how tightly you hold it all together. Life still finds a way to kick your ass. And when it does, no amount of being the 'strong one' saves you.”

The words hang in the air between us. Raw. Sharp-edged. Real.

She exhales slowly. “I think that’s what hit me hardest this week. Not just Calle’s grief. But the reminder that no one’s untouchable.”

She toys with her napkin, twisting the edge between her fingers like it’ll unravel something she’s too afraid to say outloud.

“I spent so long trying to be the one people leaned on. I didn’t know what to do when there was no one left to lean back on. It's just...so fucking lonely.”

So fucking lonely.

The words hit harder than they should. Or maybe exactly how they should.

Because I know that feeling. Too fucking well.

Lonely's not a season for me—it’s the weather. Constant. Background noise I stopped noticing years ago. A dull ache that just...exists. Doesn’t matter how loud the crowd is, how full the room is—I’m always on the outside of it. Watching, never part of it.

I don’t even remember what it feels likenotto be alone.

Except when I'm with her.

I exhale, and drag a hand across the back of my neck.

“I get it,” I say finally. Voice low. Rough. “Not in the same way. Not even close.”

She looks at me—not pushing, just waiting.

“When my dad died...”

I pause. Short, sharp.

“He was... fuck, he was everything. Not perfect. Not even close. But he was solid. Didn’t lie to me. Didn’t let me lie to myself. He kept me... tethered, I guess.”

I clear my throat. Glance down at my beer.

“When he died, something in me snapped. I stopped giving a shit. Didn’t know how to hold the pieces without him, so I didn’t. Just let 'em fall.”

Her expression doesn’t shift, but something in her posture softens.

“I hurt people,” I admit. “Said and did things I still can’t look straight at. Stuff I can’t fix, even if I wanted to.”

A bitter breath. “It’s not the same kind of grief. You and Calle...you lost people you loved who loved you back. Mine—I caused mine. Dug my own hole and jumped in.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her voice is soft, steady. “Grief can’t be compared, Sebastian.”

I meet her eyes.

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