Healing, Diane realized, was not a straight line.
Some mornings she woke up feeling almost normal, her chest light, her thoughts quiet. Other mornings, the weight returned before she even opened her eyes—settling on her ribs, pressing against her lungs, reminding her of everything she had lost and everything she had chosen to walk away from.
She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of the apartment coming alive. The kettle whistled faintly in the kitchen. A cupboard opened. Footsteps padded across the floor.
Maya was awake.
Diane shifted carefully, adjusting her injured leg before swinging it off the bed. The crutches leaned against the wall, no longer as unfamiliar as they had been weeks ago, but still an unwelcome companion. She reached for them and st
