Chapter thirty-four
Melody
Three Months Later
Kodi leans down in front of me, obstructing my view of the book I’m reading. The words in my lap blur anyway—I’ve reread the same paragraph five times and couldn’t tell you a single sentence. I just need something to hold onto. Something that feels normal.
“Have you eaten today?” she asks, her voice gentle but worried.
I shake my head. Even that small movement aches.
My body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry—brittle.
Every night unravels the same way: I fall asleep from sheer exhaustion only to jolt awake, heart hammering, a scream clawing its way up my throat as panic drags me under.
I avoid food because it turns to nausea the second it hits my stomach.
I avoid class because every sound scratches against my nerves until I can’t breathe.
I’m no longer functioning.
I’m a shell of the woman I once was.
“Melody!” Kodi snaps, ripping my textbook away from me. She takes my hands in hers, shaking me firmly as tears dot her lashes. “You’re killing yourself!”
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice monotonous and dry. My lips are cracked from dehydration, and everywhere Kodi touches physically pains me.
I don’t want to be touched.
She flinches, her shoulders coiling tightly as her hold on me loosens a fraction. “No, you’re not. You don’t sleep, don’t eat, and you haven’t been to class since you got back.”
The room feels too small—as if it’s pressurized. I focus on the crack in the ceiling above her head because I can’t look her in the eyes. Not while I’m so broken.
“Kodi,” I say, because she’s still shaking, still crying, and I know that’s my fault. “Please. I just need—”
“—to keep pretending?” she cuts in, her voice breaking. “To keep wasting away in this room? To keep not sleeping, not eating, not talking to anyone?”
My jaw tightens. I try to pull my hands free, but she tightens her hold instinctively, then catches herself and releases me quickly.
“Sorry,” she breathes, stepping back immediately. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to be touched.”
The space between us fills with something fragile and buzzing. I haven’t told her anything about Kaden. All she knows is that he’s missing and no one can find him.
My hands fall into my lap. They look like they belong to someone else, pale and trembling. I tuck them under my thighs to still them.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, softer this time.
Kodi drags a hand over her face, smearing tears across her cheek. “You scream in your sleep, Mel.“ Her voice cracks on my name. “Every night. You think I don’t hear you calling out for him?”
Heat creeps up my throat, the shame and guilt overshadowing me. I try to swallow past the building emotions, but it feels like razor blades slicing into me. “I-I…” My words die on my tongue, and silence blankets over us.
Outside in the hall, laughter echoes, feet shuffle, and life continues. People are moving as if they aren’t being unraveled at the seams, and I’m jealous.
Jealous they can still smile. Laugh. Go to class without breaking down.
They’re living, and I’m existing.
”I can’t…” My voice thins, and I clear my throat. “I can’t close my eyes…without seeing him.”
Kodi’s features soften as she sinks down to her knees beside my bed. She doesn’t touch me, but she places a hand close to mine, offering comfort. “Okay. Look at me, Melody.”
My eyes find hers, and it’s as if everything crumbles all over again. I see the pain I’m putting her through, and it’s tearing me apart. “I can’t breathe…”
“You’re here, Mel,” she says softly. “With me in our dorm. Nowhere else.”
I nod, and Kodi moves as if she’s handling something fragile. She lifts her phone and checks it. “On-campus counseling has crisis hours. We can go now.”
The word crisis hits me hard.
“I’m not…”
“Yes, you are,” my friend says softly. “And that’s okay.”
Nothing about the hurt inside of me feels okay, but I nod anyway.
“Can you put shoes on?”
I slowly ease out of the bed, my aches increasing with every movement and making my breath hitch. I screw my eyes shut, forcing myself to walk. Every step is pins-and-needles, making me break out in a cold sweat.
“Almost there,” Kodi encourages lightly.
I slip my feet into my sandals, my heart pounding with the meaning of this. I’ll have to go outside.
“Eyes on me,” Kodi instructs.
My gaze snaps to hers, and I focus on my friend as she coaches me out the front door. The bright fluorescent lights of the hallway bite into my eyes, and I squint before stopping. My head spins as I lift a hand to my temple. “Wait.”
“Can I touch you?” Kodi asks.
I nod.
She slips her arms around my waist before helping me to the elevator. She stops at a vending machine, grabs a granola bar, and offers it to me. “Try,” she begs.
I take it, my fingers shaking as I rip into it and take a bite. It tastes like dust in my mouth, but the painful rumble of my stomach only urges me to take another hearty bite as I chew.
“Doing great,” Kodi whispers.
We make it to the exit doors, and the moment she opens them, the outside air whips into my lungs. It’s spring, my favorite time of the year, but I haven’t even had a moment to soak it in.
We stop a few more times, giving me a chance to catch my breath before the counseling building comes into view. It’s a brick building with a blue sign near the door. I’ve walked past it a hundred times, but never imagined walking into it.
My feet falter on the steps. Kodi doesn’t say anything this time. She just stands beside me.
After a long moment, I whisper, “What if they think I’m being dramatic?”
Her answer is immediate. “They won’t.”
“And if they do?” I urge.
“Then I’ll write a strongly worded letter to the dean.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches.
We climb the steps. Inside, it smells faintly of coffee and something citrusy. The lighting is soft, and there’s a water feature trickling quietly in the corner.
The receptionist looks up with kind eyes. “Hi there.”
My throat closes.
Kodi steps in. “We’re here for a crisis walk-in.”
The receptionist’s expression shifts, gentle but professional. “Of course. Come on back.”
The word crisis hits again, but softer this time. She slides me a clipboard. The paper trembles in my hands. I stare at the blank space for too long.
Reason for visit.
Kodi leans close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. “You don’t have to write everything,” she murmurs. “Just enough.”
My pen scratches across the paper.
Nightmares.
Can’t eat.
Panic attacks.
Not sleeping.
Can’t function.
The letters look jagged and uneven. I hand it back before I can change my mind.
A few minutes later, a woman in her forties with soft gray streaks in her hair appears in the doorway. “Melody?”
My heart jumps.
“I’m Dr. Harris,” she says, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I’m really glad you came in today.”
Kodi looks at me. “Do you want me to come back with you?”
My instinct is to say no. To isolate and shrink myself.
But the idea of sitting in a room alone and speaking the things I’ve locked inside feels like stepping off a cliff.
“…Yes,” I whisper.
Kodi squeezes my sleeve in reassurance.
Dr. Harris nods. “That’s perfectly fine.”
The office is warm and quiet. There’s a couch and a box of tissues already within reach. I sit stiffly on the edge of the cushion, taking the hem of my shirt between my fingers.
Dr. Harris settles into a chair across from me, her posture open. “Before we talk about anything hard,” she says gently, “I want to make sure you’re safe right now. Are you having thoughts about hurting yourself?”
The question is direct and careful. It makes my chest tighten, but not in panic.
In honesty.
“I don’t want to die,” I say slowly. “I just… don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
Dr. Harris nods. “That makes sense. We can work with that.”
Work with that.
For the first time in months, something inside me shifts. I’m not fixed or healed.
But I’m not completely hopeless either.