You don’t remember getting to the hospital — not really. Just that your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your voice wouldn’t come out.

You’re curled up on one of the ER benches, hoodie zipped up, face turned to the wall.

Someone had called a doctor to check you out.

It’s Addison.

You hear her heels before you see her face.

“I was paged—” she starts, clipboard in hand, voice clipped. Professional.

Then she sees you.

Sees the bruises. The blood. The broken look in your eyes.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, clipboard hitting the floor.

She kneels in front of you like she’s afraid you’ll shatter.

You haven’t spoken a word yet.

But you let her hold your hand.