Chapter 1
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU
NORA
They tell you that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I've learned that what nearly destroys you actually makes you softer. More aware of the paper-thin membrane between being and not-being.
Isn't that the cruelest paradox of all?
That suffering opens your eyes to beauty just as it threatens to close them forever. That the very moments when you're closest to losing everything are when you finally understand what everything means.
Time is this relentless river that carries us all downstream whether we're swimming or drowning. We think we have so much of it—endless summers, conversations and moments. Now I know we're all living on borrowed moments. Each heartbeat is a loan from a universe that doesn't guarantee renewal.
I guess that's what wisdom really is—not having all the answers but finally asking the right questions.
Why do we wait until we're losing something to realize we had it?
Why does it take darkness to make us appreciate light?
Why does the clock only sound loud when we're lying awake at 3 AM wondering if we've wasted all our time?
Yes, we're all on borrowed time, but so is the sun, so are the stars. So is everything that ever was or will be.
Everything is temporary and although I know that to be true, it still doesn't make the nightmares go away.
It's been eight months since I clawed my way back from the edge of something unspeakable, back from metal and glass and red lights flashing like warnings across my vision.
The nightmare always starts the same way—headlights cutting through darkness like some fucked-up metaphor for death I'd normally roll my eyes at in English class.
But here I am, living inside the cliché, watching those twin suns grow larger, brighter, inevitable.
Then impact hits like the world's worst plot twist.
My world implodes in a symphony of destruction.
The hood crumples like paper, the sound of buckling metal so loud it becomes a physical thing, rattling my bones and rupturing the quiet night.
The windshield splinters in slow motion—a spiderweb of cracks blooming outward before dissolving into a thousand glittering daggers.
They catch the streetlight as they hurtle toward me, beautiful and lethal, slicing skin and embedding themselves in my flesh.
It becomes like a movie, one I can't hit stop on because the rewind button is the only one working. I'm an active observer watching my near death over and over again, trapped in this endless loop where I can only witness, never escape.
The seatbelt locks, the force still isn't enough to wake me from this endless loop in hell, crushing into my ribcage with such force I swear I hear bones crack.
The silence that follows is worse than the chaos.
My vision blurs, edges going soft and dark, but I can still see my hands trembling against the deflated airbag, still feel the warm wetness spreading across my forehead.
This is where I always try to scream, try to claw my way back to consciousness, but the nightmare holds me fast. Forces me to relive every microsecond of metal meeting metal, of physics and flesh colliding in ways they were never meant to.
"Nora. Nora, wake up."
The voice cuts through the wreckage like a lifeline. Soft but insistent, familiar as my own heartbeat.
"Nor, wake up." Camilla's voice.
Her hands on my shoulders, gentle but firm, pulling me back from the edge. My eyes snap open, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat that feels too much like blood.
The taste of copper lingers even as the nightmare dissolves.
“Hey, you're okay. You're okay." Camilla's face hovers above mine, her dark hair creating a curtain around us both.
Her fingers brush the damp strands from my forehead with the practiced tenderness of someone who's done this too many times.
I try to speak but my throat feels raw, like I've been screaming.
Wait, have I been screaming?
The thin walls of our London flat don't hide much.
"Same one?" she asks, settling on the edge of my bed.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
The scar along my collarbone throbs—phantom pain from a wound that's long healed but apparently not forgotten. A jagged line that cuts across my skin from where the glass found its mark, a permanent reminder of how close I came to losing everything.
"That's the third time this week." Her voice carries that careful tone people use when they're trying not to sound worried but absolutely are.
"I know." The words come out hoarse. "I'm sorry I woke you again."
"Nor," she shakes her head. "Don't apologize. That's not how this works." She pauses, studying my face in the dim light. "What I meant was, they're getting worse and I think it's time you saw someone about it. When's the last time you had a full night's sleep?"
Not since the night of the accident, I think, but I don't say it out loud.
I push myself up against the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest. The digital clock on my nightstand reads 3:33AM.
Of course.
Even my subconscious has a flair for the dramatic.
"Water?" Camilla asks, already reaching for the glass on my bedside table.
I take it gratefully, the cool liquid washing away the metallic taste that always lingers after the dreams. Camilla stays quiet while I drink, giving me space to breathe.
This is why I love her, she knows when to push and when to simply exist beside me.
"I thought I was getting better," I finally whisper.
"You are getting better. Healing isn't linear, remember?"
She's right.
I think I told her that, probably quoting some self-help article I'd read online while I was trying to convince myself things were getting better.
Then again, it's easier to offer wisdom than to accept it.
"Go back to sleep," I tell her. "I'm okay now."
But Camilla doesn't move.
She studies my face in the dim light filtering through our thin curtains, reading me like one of the manuscripts I edit during the day.
"You know you don't have to carry this alone, right?"
"Cam—"
"I'm serious. There are people who specialize in this stuff. Professionals who actually know what they're doing instead of just your well-meaning best friend bringing you water at three in the morning."
I want to argue, to deflect with humor or change the subject entirely. But the words stick in my throat because she's right.
I can't literature-major my way out of PTSD.
"I'll think about it," I say instead.
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm lying, but she pats my arm gently anyway before padding back to her room.
I listen to her door click shut, then to the building settling around us. London never truly sleeps, even at this hour there's the distant hum of night buses and late-shift workers heading home.
I don't even try to go back to sleep.
Instead, I reach for the notebook I keep by my bed and start writing.
The words spill out jagged and raw, everything I can't say out loud bleeding onto the page in messy handwriting.
This is how I process now—through metaphors and fragmented sentences that somehow make more sense than real conversation.
By the time morning light starts creeping through the windows, I've filled six pages with something that might be poetry, a new story idea or might just be a breakdown.
The line between them gets blurrier every day.
"You look like hell," Camilla observes over coffee, not unkindly.
I catch my reflection in the kitchen window and wince.
Shit, I do. Dark circles, pale skin, hair doing its own rebellious thing.
She slides a piece of toast across the tiny table.
"Eat. And don't even think about telling me you're not hungry."
I take a bite to appease her, even though my stomach feels like it's tied in knots.
"I'm serious about what I said," she says, not looking at me. "About you talking to someone."
"I know."
"Do you, though? Because you've been saying you'll think about it for months now and I know right now I'm being a pushy bitch but I just care, which is like, really rare for me."
I set down my toast.
"Cam, I appreciate the concern, I really do. But I'm handling it."
"Nor," She finally meets my eyes. "Waking up in a frantic state every night this past week doesn't exactly scream 'handling it' to me."
The words sting because they're true.
I've been telling myself I'm fine, that time will heal everything, that I just need to be patient. But eight months feels like long enough to at least sleep through the night.
"Look," I say, standing up and grabbing my bag. "I promise I'll actually think about it this time. But right now I need to get to work or I'll be late."
Camilla's expression softens. "Nor—"
"I love you for caring. You know that, right?"
"Of course I do. I just want you to care about yourself the same way."
I hug her as I pass. "Working on it."
"Yeah, well work faster before I have to stage an intervention. And by intervention, I mean I'll call your mom."
The morning air hits my face as I step outside, crisp and sharp with the promise of spring. London in May feels like possibility and change, even when you're walking to the same job you've had for eight months.
Macmillan And Sons sits wedged between a used bookstore and a café that makes terrible coffee but excellent people-watching opportunities.
It looks exactly like what central casting would order for "small but prestigious literary publisher"—narrow building, worn brick facade, windows that haven't been updated since the seventies.
I push through the glass door, breathing in the familiar smell of old paper and fresh coffee from the good machine upstairs. This place has become my sanctuary, the one space where I feel like I'm building something instead of just surviving.
"Well good morning to you." Liam looks up from his desk where he's sorting through a stack of query letters.
His smile is warm and genuine, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes something flutter uncomfortably in my chest.
"Morning. You're here early."