Sam's P.O.V.
The car ride home from therapy is silent, but the air inside feels like it’s vibrating with unspoken words. My mom stares straight ahead, her hands gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles are white.
I sit in the back, staring out the window, my reflection warped and blurry against the passing streetlights.
Therapy was supposed to help, wasn’t it? Instead, it felt like walking barefoot through broken glass, every word cutting deeper into wounds we weren’t ready to show. And that final question from the therapist—what are we so afraid of losing?—still echoes in my mind.
When we pull into the driveway, Jax and his dad are already inside. I can see them through the window, the tense outlines of their figures moving around the kitchen. My heart twists painfully.
Inside, the
