Chapter 5: Panic, Petals, and the Cost of Love

5.1: Flowers on the Floor and Ginny’s Spiral

The fight about food did not disappear just because Marcus and Ginny pretended it had. The words trash and starve clung to the corners of her mind like cobwebs. For a while, they kept the peace through careful avoidance, steering conversation toward art, music, and anything that did not involve plates or portions.

But bodies have limits.

Two weeks after Marcus threw his blades away in the studio trash, Ginny’s grades dipped. Not by much, just a B on a physics quiz that might as well have been a failing mark in her father’s eyes. The evening he saw it, he slapped the paper on the table with a crack that made her flinch.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“A quiz,” she said quietly.

“A quiz with a B,” he snarled. “You think colleges want this?”

“It was one test,” she whispered.

“One test becomes a habit,” he shot back. “You are slipping. Spending all your time in that stupid art room. With that boy. I did not raise you to be average.”

Her mother washed dishes at the sink, eyes on the running water, shoulders rigidly still.

Ginny stared at the red ink circle around the 83. Her chest tightened. “I will do better,” she said automatically.

He snorted. “You will. Because from now on, no more after-school art. Straight home. Study. If I see another grade like this, I will take your sketchbooks. You understand?”

Panic flared. “You cannot—”

“I can,” he said. “And I will. Get your priorities straight. You want to end up flipping burgers? Cutting yourself and crying about wasted potential?”

The room went silent.

Her mother’s hands stilled in the suds. Ginny’s lungs stopped mid-breath. Her father seemed to realize what he had said a second too late, but pride locked his jaw.

She swallowed. “What did you just say?” she whispered.

He waved a hand dismissively. “You think I do not know? I am not blind. Those sleeves in summer. The bandages. You should be ashamed.”

“I am,” she said hollowly.

“Good,” he snapped. “Now use that shame to improve instead of indulging in self-pity.”

She pushed back from the table so hard the chair scraped. “May I be excused?” she asked, voice shaking.

“Go study,” he said. “No music. No phone.”

She walked to her room on unsteady legs, ears ringing. His words repeated in her head, overlapping with Austin’s, with Marcus’s from the kitchen.

Trash. Starve. Cut yourself and cry. Use that shame.

She shut her bedroom door and leaned against it, sliding down until she sat on the carpet. Her breath came fast, shallow. The ceiling seemed to tilt.

Her thigh ached with the pull of old burns. Her forearm throbbed faintly under the healing cuts. The urge rose, sharp and sudden, like a wave crashing over her head.

Call.

Marcus’s number glowed in her mind. She saw his face in her bathroom, his shaking hands, the flowers on the floor. The memory burned as much as the urge.

You keep ruining things, she thought. You keep breaking promises. You keep making him clean up.

Her skin crawled with self-disgust. She slapped her own cheek once, twice. The sting did nothing to quiet the roar.

Stupid. Weak. Filthy. Trash.

She stood abruptly, almost dizzy, and crossed to her desk. The razor in the drawer had been tossed in the trash that night with Marcus, but she had other ways. Always other ways. The knowledge sickened her.

Her eyes landed on an old disposable shaver in the bathroom bag under her bed, the kind she had forgotten to throw out. Her heart lurched.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Her hand moved anyway.

By the time she sat on the cold bathroom floor with the safety cap snapped off and the blade in her palm, she was already halfway gone. Breath too fast. Vision narrowing. The thought of calling Marcus flickered and died under the heat of self-loathing.

He will hate you, the voice hissed. He told you to call. You are failing at even that. You might as well finish the failure.

She pressed the blade to her skin and sliced.

Blood welled immediately, bright and obscene against the pale network of old scars. She watched it as if it belonged to someone else, numb and hyper-aware at once.

The second cut went deeper. A sharp, clean pain, like glass on a sunburn. The noise in her head muted for a heartbeat, replaced by that single, perfect sensation.

She drew a third line. The blade slipped. The cut opened wider than she intended. Blood surged, warm and insistent, running down to her wrist, dripping from her fingers to the tile.

Panic slammed back in, harder.

“Oh God,” she gasped. “Oh no.”

She fumbled for toilet paper, pressing it to the wounds. It soaked through in seconds, soggy and pink. Her breaths came in jagged gulps. Each one fed the terror instead of easing it.

“Idiot, idiot,” she muttered, hitting her temple with the heel of her hand. “What did you do? You promised. You promised him.”

Her legs shook. She tried to stand and slumped back down, back hitting the cabinet with a thud. The room seemed to shrink, walls inching closer.

Her phone buzzed in the bedroom. A muffled vibration through the door. She could not move. Could not call. Could barely think past the metallic smell in the air.

Tears blurred her vision. “I am sorry,” she whispered to no one and everyone.

The buzzing stopped. Started again. Stopped. Silence.

Across the street, Marcus paced his bedroom, the grilled cheese argument replaying in loops. He held the cheap bouquet in his hand, petals bruising under his grip.

He had spent the morning torn between giving her space and apologizing. Eventually, his aunt’s voice in his head tipped the balance. Call before, not after. Do not let pride keep you from showing up.

He texted once: I am sorry. You were right. I was a jerk.

No reply.

He texted again: I bought you something ugly.

Still nothing.

“I am an idiot,” he muttered, jamming his shoes on. “She is probably fine. Or studying. Or… no, she is not fine.”

He cut across their yards, heart in his throat, the flowers clutched tight. The oak tree’s branches rustled overhead, whispering. His knuckles tingled with phantom pain, remembering Austin’s face.

At her front door, he knocked. “Ginny?”

No answer.

He knocked harder. “Come on, it is me. I have trash flowers.”

Nothing.

A cold knot formed in his gut. He tried the handle. It turned.

He stepped into the quiet house, calling her name. No TV hum. No clatter from the kitchen. Her father’s car was gone. The silence felt wrong.

He took the stairs two at a time. Her bedroom door stood open. The bed was empty. Sketchbooks scattered. The bathroom door closed, light glowing under the edge.

He smelled blood before he saw it.

His heart tripped. The flowers slipped from his fingers as he shoved the door open.

The bouquet hit the tile with a dull, wet thud. White petals scattered across the floor, some landing in the thin streaks of red near Ginny’s feet.

She sat slumped against the cabinet, knees drawn up, bandaged arm bare and slick with new blood. Her hand shook where it pressed soggy tissue to a cluster of fresh cuts. Her face was pale, eyes wide and glassy, breathing too fast.

“Ginny,” he breathed.

Her head snapped toward him. “Marcus,” she gasped, relief and horror crashing in her voice. “I am sorry, I am so sorry, I messed up, I did not call, I—”

He dropped to his knees in the scattered flowers, jeans soaking up water and blood. “What did you do, beautiful?” The endearment tore out of him, desperate.

She flinched at the word beautiful, tears spilling faster. “I am an idiot,” she cried. “I could not stop. I could not think. I ruined it. I ruined everything.”

Her free hand darted up toward her head, fingers curling into a fist. She hit her own temple once, twice, as if she could knock herself unconscious.

He grabbed her wrists gently but firmly, pulling them down. “No,” he said, voice low and sharp. “No more hitting. No more calling yourself that.”

“I am,” she insisted, trying to yank free. “I am pathetic, I am trash, I—”

“Stop,” he snapped, more harshly than he intended. “You are bleeding out and apologizing. That is not pathetic, that is… messed up programming.”

She stared at him, shaking. “I am sorry,” she whispered again, as if the word could bandage the air between them.

His chest ached. “Breathe,” he said. “Please. Just breathe with me.”

“I cannot,” she gasped. “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Do it with me.”

He exaggerated his own breaths, dragging air in until his chest hurt, blowing it out slow. After a few tries, her rib cage began to match his rhythm in jagged fits. Her fingers loosened slightly in his hands.

“That is it,” he murmured. “Good. That is better.”

He let go of her right wrist carefully and lifted the blood-soaked tissue. The fresh cuts gaped, angry and wet. Some were shallow, others deeper, parallel to the old scars. The sight turned his stomach.

“Does it need stitches?” she whispered, echo of their earlier bathroom scene.

He swallowed. “I do not think so,” he said. “But you definitely need more than cheap toilet paper.”

He reached for a clean towel, wrapped it around her arm, and pressed gently. She winced, biting her lip.

“I hate me,” she whispered.

“I do not,” he said.

“You should.”

“I do not,” he repeated. “I am terrified. Not disgusted.”

Her eyes searched his face, as if she expected to find revulsion there. All she saw was fear and something fiercer.

“I could not call,” she choked. “The thoughts were too loud. You sounded angry in my head. Like my dad. Like Austin. I thought you would say ‘I told you so.’”

His grip tightened. “I will never say that,” he said. “I was afraid you would think it. I should have known your brain would weaponize my worst moments.”

She let out a strangled laugh-sob. “It is very talented.”

He eased the towel back to check the bleeding. It was slowing, darkening. Relief washed through him. “We are okay,” he said quietly. “We caught it. You did not go too deep.”

“Yet,” she muttered.

He looked up sharply. “No,” he said. “We are not doing that. You called me with your cuts still open. Maybe not on the phone. But you did. I am here.”

“I did not call,” she protested weakly.

“You picked me to walk in,” he said. “You left the door unlocked. You texted me before. Subconsciously, you wanted me to come.”

“That is very pamphlet of you,” she said, voice wobbly.

“Shut up,” he replied, but his lips twitched.

He slid one arm behind her back, one under her knees. “I am going to move you to the bed, okay?”

Her eyes went wide. “No. I can—”

“You can barely hold your arm up,” he said. “Let me help.”

He lifted. She was heavier with wet clothes and limp limbs, but he held her close, careful of her wounds. Her head fell against his shoulder. He smelled shampoo and blood and the faint, lingering scent of antiseptic from previous bandages.

“Do not look at me,” she whispered into his neck. “I am disgusting.”

“You are bleeding,” he said. “There is a difference.”

He set her gently on the bed, propping her injured arm on a pillow. The towel was mottled deep red. He grabbed the little box of aftercare from under her desk, hands finding gauze, cream, tape with practiced speed.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he unwrapped her arm slowly, cleaning around the cuts with damp cloth. Her breathing hitched with each sting, but she did not pull away.

“Why do you keep coming?” she asked suddenly, voice hoarse. “Why did you bring flowers?”

He glanced at the crumpled bouquet on the bathroom floor, petals smeared pink. “Because I was an ass this morning,” he said. “Because I hate that I sound like them sometimes. Because I love you.”

The word hung between them, undeniable now.

She stared at him, raw. “You should not,” she whispered. “I keep making you do this. Bandage me. Clean up. Watch me fall apart.”

“I am not doing anything I would not want you to do for me,” he said softly. “We are trading emergencies.”

She blinked through tears. “I do not know how to help you,” she admitted.

“You answer when I call,” he said. “You yelled at me when you saw my bandage. You made me throw my blades away. That is more than most people have done.”

He finished wrapping her arm and taped the gauze down, his touch gentle. When he was done, he sat back, hands stained pink.

“I am sorry,” she whispered again.

He shook his head. “I am sorry I said trash.”

The word made her flinch. “Do not say it.”

“I am sorry I said it,” he repeated. “I was angry and scared and I picked the cruelest thing I could find. It was not about you. It was about me. I promised myself I would not be like your dad or Austin, and then I put that word in your head. That is on me.”

Her throat worked. “My dad said it last night,” she blurted. “Not the word. But close. He saw my grade and… and he said I was wasting everything. He mentioned the cutting. He made it sound like… a choice. Like I was doing it for attention. I could not breathe.”

Rage coiled hot in Marcus’s chest. “He has no right to talk about something he does not understand,” he said. “Especially when he helped create it.”

She sniffed. “You sound like Aunt Lina.”

“High praise,” he said.

“She would probably call Child Protective Services,” Ginny muttered.

He filed that thought away. For now, his priority was keeping her conscious and calmer.

“Do you feel faint?” he asked.

“A little,” she admitted. “Mostly from… everything.”

“Lay back,” he said, easing her down. He brushed damp hair from her forehead and pressed his lips there, a soft, grounding touch.

“I am not mad,” he murmured against her skin. “You hear me? I am scared. I am sad. I am exhausted. But I am not mad at you.”

Her eyes closed. Tears slid out anyway.

“Why do you still love me?” she whispered. “I do not deserve it.”

His chest ached. “Maybe not,” he said. “Maybe no one does. Maybe love is not about deserving. Maybe it is about choosing.”

She let out a shaky breath. “You chose wrong.”

“I chose you,” he said. “I will live with it.”

A wet laugh escaped her. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he countered.

Silence seeped in, thick but no longer suffocating. The worst of her panic ebbed. The cuts throbbed under the fresh bandages, a dull ache instead of an urgent scream.

He tidied the bathroom, tossing the bloodied tissues, rinsing the sink, picking up the wilted daisies and dropping them gently into the trash. When he came back, she had curled onto her side, knees tucked carefully, good arm wrapped around a pillow.

“Stay?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“Of course,” he said.

He lay down behind her, not too close, one hand resting light on her hip over the blanket.

They did not talk about sex. Not yet. That would come later, out of a tangle of guilt, desire, and the desperate need to feel something other than pain.

For now, as the light outside dimmed and the oak’s shadow stretched long across their shared street, they lay in the quiet that followed a storm, hearts still racing, bodies still buzzing, but alive.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Ginny woke with her chest tight, images of blades and disappointed faces flickering behind her eyes. Before her hand could wander toward her thigh, she felt Marcus’s fingers twitch against her hip and heard his sleepy mumble.

“I am here,” he whispered, half dreaming.

It was not a cure.

It was enough to make her hand settle back on the pillow.

5.2: Bandages, Kisses, and the Quiet After

Morning bled into afternoon in a blur of half sleep and the dull throb of healing skin. When Ginny finally sat up, the room was lit by pale Saturday light. Marcus lay on his back beside her, one arm flung over his eyes, hoodie rucked up just enough to reveal a sliver of bruised stomach where he had tensed in the night.

She watched him breathe for a moment, chest rising and falling. A pang of guilt tugged at her. He looked exhausted, even in sleep. Dark smudges under his eyes. Faint worry lines etched between his brows.

“I keep doing this to you,” she murmured to herself.

He stirred, blinking against the light. “Doing what?” he croaked.

“Making you clean up,” she said. “Bandage me. Lose sleep. Listen to me apologize.”

He dropped his arm, squinting at her. “You also make me laugh,” he said. “And share your playlists. And let me rant about my parents. It is not all blood and guilt.”

Her eyes filled again. “Feels like it lately.”

He pushed himself up slowly, wincing as his own arm twinged under the hidden bandage. “We are in a rough patch,” he admitted. “Rougher than usual. My aunt would have a field day with our coping charts.”

“You told her?” she asked sharply.

“No,” he said quickly. “Not about you. Just… hypotheticals.”

She relaxed a fraction. “She would tell you to tell an adult,” she muttered.

“She would,” he agreed. “She would probably tell you too.”

Ginny looked away. “I cannot,” she whispered. “Not yet. Not with my dad. Not with how he talks about it. They will make it about shame. About failure. I cannot survive that on top of everything else.”

“I know,” he said. “I am not going to push. Not until you want it.”

“Do you want it?” she asked. “Someone else? A teacher? Your aunt? A therapist?”

He thought of his aunt’s texts, of late-night Googling therapy options his insurance might tolerate, of the art teacher’s subtle glances at his and Ginny’s sleeves. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “But I am also scared.”

“Of what?” she asked.

“Of being told we are too much,” he admitted. “Of being separated. Of people blaming us instead of the adults who broke things in the first place.”

Her throat tightened. “So we stay here,” she said. “In this… in-between.”

“For now,” he said. “But not forever. I promise. We will find someone.”

She studied his face. “Promise you will not do it alone,” she said. “If you decide to tell someone. Bring me in or bring your aunt in or bring Ms. Hale. Do not go into another office by yourself.”

He nodded. “Same for you.”

Silence settled, less strained now. The bleeding had stopped. The worst of the panic had passed. What remained was the ache of vulnerability and the strange, fragile quiet that followed.

Ginny shifted, wincing as her bandaged arm tugged. Marcus noticed.

“Let me see,” he said.

“You just saw,” she protested.

“Yesterday,” he said. “This is a new day.”

She huffed, but held out her arm. He unwrapped the outer layer of gauze with gentle fingers, checking for seepage, swelling, signs of infection. The cuts looked angry but clean. He dabbed antibiotic cream along the edges, rewrapped with fresh bandage.

“It is not pretty,” he said. “But it is healing.”

“Story of my life,” she muttered.

He smiled faintly. “Same.”

When he finished, he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to the wrapped skin. “Thank you for letting me,” he said.

“For what?” she asked.

“For being here,” he said simply. “Instead of… not.”

Her eyes stung. “You are going to get tired of these,” she whispered, nodding at her arm.

“I am already tired,” he said. “Of pain being your first language. I am not tired of you.”

The distinction settled in her chest like a small, steady weight.

Later, when they had both eaten something small and unremarkable in her kitchen under her mother’s silent, watchful eye, they retreated to Marcus’s studio. The air there felt heavier than usual, as if absorbing the residue of the last day.

Ginny curled on the couch in one of his oversized shirts and leggings, her bandaged arm propped on a pillow. Marcus sat at the table, rolling a joint between his fingers without lighting it.

“Do you want to?” she asked.

He glanced back. “Smoke?”

She nodded.

He studied the paper in his hands, then her face. “Not sure,” he said. “Part of me does. Part of me thinks it will make everything louder.”

“What if…” She hesitated. “What if I try? And you do not.”

His head snapped up. “You want to?”

She shrugged, cheeks heating. “I am curious. You talk about it like it slows things down. I would like that. Just once. Without… blades.”

His stomach knotted. “I do not know if that is a good idea,” he said. “Self-harm plus substances is… slippery.”

“I trust you,” she said simply. “If it goes bad, you will help me.”

Trust. The word landed like a challenge.

He set the joint down, fingers tapping. “Okay,” he said after a beat. “But I am not smoking with you. I want to keep my head clear.”

Her brows rose. “You always smoke with people,” she said. “Isn’t that the point?”

“I stopped doing a lot of things the usual way when you walked into my bathroom covered in blood,” he replied. “I am not letting both of us be out of it if something goes wrong.”

Her chest squeezed. “You really think I am going to freak out that bad?” she asked, half joking, half afraid.

“I think your brain is a crowded room,” he said. “We are about to dim the lights. I want someone sober to flip them back on.”

She snorted. “Your metaphors are worsening.”

“Yet you are still here,” he said.

She extended her bandaged arm. “Light it, then.”

He hesitated another second, then reached for the lighter he now kept only for candles and this. He sparked the joint, watched the tip glow, the paper curl.

“Small hits,” he instructed, holding it out. “Slow. And if you do not like it, you stop. No bravado.”

“Yes, dad,” she said dryly.

“Do not,” he warned, a flash of remembered anger crossing his face.

“Sorry,” she said immediately.

He softened. “Just… be you. Not him.”

She nodded, took the joint between her fingers, and inhaled. The smoke hit her lungs hot and harsh. She coughed, eyes watering.

“Gentler,” he said, taking it back for a second. He demonstrated a shallower draw, then handed it to her again.

The second hit slid in easier. She held it, exhaled slowly. The room shifted at the edges, softening, sounds stretching. Her body felt both heavier and looser, as if someone had replaced her bones with warm sand.

“How do you feel?” he asked, watching her carefully.

“Floaty,” she said honestly. “But… less loud.”

Her limbs relaxed into the couch. The ache in her thigh dulled, her arm a background throb instead of a siren. Her thoughts, normally a barrage, dripped instead in slower drops.

He sat beside her, joint in hand, but did not bring it to his lips. His eyes stayed on her face, checking for signs of panic.

“This is nice,” she said, head tipping back. “I can feel my body without hating it for a minute.”

He smiled, though a thread of worry tugged. “Good,” he said. “Remember that feeling. So if it ever tips into bad, we can tell.”

They talked in lazy circles for a while. About teachers, about stupid TV shows, about the way the dust motes in the studio looked like tiny galaxies when the light hit just right. She laughed more easily, words flowing. He basked in the sound, torn between relief and unease.

At some point, the air grew warmer, or she felt it that way. “It is hot,” she mumbled, tugging at the neck of the shirt.

“There is no AC in here,” he said. “Old garage. All fan, no chill.”

“I am sweating,” she complained, plucking at the fabric sticking to her collarbone. “I hate it.”

“Take the shirt off,” he said, then blinked. “I mean, if you want. I have another.”

She giggled. “Smooth.”

“I will turn around,” he offered, already twisting his body.

“No,” she said, the word soft and unguarded. “It is fine.”

She peeled the oversized shirt up and over her head, revealing a lace bra beneath, thin straps against her pale shoulders. For a heartbeat, Marcus forgot how to breathe.

Her right arm, freed of its sleeve, lay bare in the studio light. Thick, raised scars traced its length, crossing old and new paths, a map of years of hurt.

His chest tightened. He had seen glimpses before, under bandages, in half-lit rooms. Never like this, all of it, unhidden.

Her gaze followed his. Shame flashed across her face. She grabbed the long T-shirt he had been holding out, yanked it over her head quickly, tugging the sleeves down as if she could stuff the scars back under fabric.

“It was a long time ago,” she said rushly. “I was stupid. It is ugly. I know.”

He reached out, gently caught her elbow before she could fully hide the arm. “Ginny,” he said softly.

She froze.

“I understand,” he said. “More than you think.”

She blinked, following his eyes to his own upper arm where, under the thin cotton of his T-shirt, his scars lay. “You still love me?” she asked in a tiny voice. “Seeing that?”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe more.”

She scoffed weakly. “Liar.”

He lifted her arm slowly, pressing a light kiss to one of the thickest scars, the way he had at her house. “I love the girl who survived this,” he murmured against her skin. “Not the knife that made it.”

Her breath hitched. Tears pricked her eyes again, sobering her more than any lecture could.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “For last night. For today. For all of it.”

“Stop apologizing,” he said gently. “Start letting yourself be held.”

A quiet settled, heavy but warm. She shifted closer, tucking herself against his side, head on his chest. His arm curled around her, careful of bandages. The joint burned itself out in the ashtray, smoke curling lazily.

They lay like that for a long time, listening to each other breathe. The studio cradled them, canvases leaning like silent witnesses.

When his body responded to the closeness, to the feel of her against him, he felt a flash of guilt so sharp it almost made him pull away. This, after blood and bandages, felt dangerous. Like reinforcing a link between harm and intimacy.

She moved first.

“Marcus,” she said, lifting her head. Her pupils were blown, from weed and emotion. “Kiss me.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Now?”

“I need to feel something else,” she said, voice raw. “Something that is not pain or shame. Please.”

He searched her face. “We should not… right after,” he said carefully. “It is messy. It could tie things together in our heads that we do not want.”

“You think they are not already tied?” she asked, bitter amusement edging her words. “Every time you bandage me, I feel closer. Every time you call me before you cut, I feel… important. We are tied. This is just… another knot.”

He swallowed. “I do not want to reward self-harm with sex,” he said bluntly, hating how clinical it sounded.

“I do not want a reward,” she shot back. “I want to feel loved. I want to feel like I am more than the worst thing I did yesterday. I want you. Is that so awful?”

Tears glittered in her eyes. His resolve wavered. He was seventeen and scared and in love. The pamphlets and warnings and good intentions clashed with the reality of her warm body pressed against him, the trust in her gaze.

He brushed a thumb over her cheek. “You are not thinking straight,” he said gently.

“Neither are you,” she replied. “We never do.”

He huffed a small, pained laugh. “Accurate.”

She leaned in before he could answer, lips brushing his. The kiss was soft at first, tentative. Familiar and new all at once. The weed in her system made her slower, more languid, but not disconnected. She clutched his shirt with her good hand like an anchor.

He responded almost despite himself, hand sliding to the back of her neck, thumb stroking the fine hairs there. The kiss deepened, their mouths moving with a desperate tenderness that had been building for months.

Between breaths, she whispered, “I am sorry.”

He whispered back, “I love you.”

The words tangled with their tongues. Kisses moved to jawlines, to throats, to collarbones. Hands mapped safe spaces, avoiding bandages and scars, learning the landscape of each other’s bodies like new canvases.

When they finally crossed the last line, shedding layers with shy, shaking fingers, it was not graceful. There were pauses to adjust, to check in, to make sure bandages were not pulled, that thighs were not pressed too hard.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmured.

“It all hurts,” she said, then added, “but not this. Not in a bad way.”

After, they lay tangled in the rumpled sheets of his narrow bed, bodies slick with sweat, hearts hammering. The high had worn off enough that Ginny felt the full weight of what they had done, layered on top of everything else.

“Did we just make a terrible decision?” she asked the ceiling.

“Probably,” he said.

She turned her head to look at him. “Do you regret it?”

He met her gaze. “No,” he said. “Do you?”

She thought of the way his hands had been careful, of the way he had asked are you sure more than once, of the way her body had responded with something like gratitude.

“No,” she said slowly. “I regret… timing. Not you.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

“That sounds like a pamphlet title,” she added.

He laughed, tension breaking. “Pamphlet ninety-three: ‘Sex after Self-Harm: Maybe Not Ideal Timing.’”

She smacked his chest weakly. “You are impossible.”

“Still here, though,” he said.

She sobered. “You really are.”

They fell into a drowsy quiet. Outside, a car door slammed somewhere. A dog barked. Life went on, oblivious.

“Marcus?” she said after a while.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we are going to make it?” she asked. “Not as a couple. As… people. Alive.”

He stared at the water stains on his ceiling. “I think we have a better chance together than alone,” he said honestly. “But we cannot just be each other’s only safety net forever.”

“I know,” she said. “We need… more. Other hands.”

He nodded. “My aunt is coming to visit next month,” he said quietly. “I was thinking… maybe I could tell her. About me. About us. About… the cuts.”

Fear flashed across her face. “She will tell people,” she said.

“She will tell me to tell people,” he corrected. “She cannot force me. I just… trust her.”

Ginny bit her lip. “Do you want me there?” she asked.

He smiled faintly. “Yeah,” he said. “If you are okay with it. If we frame it like ‘we need help’ and not ‘fix her.’”

“She will want to fix both of us,” Ginny said.

“She can want,” he replied. “We can set boundaries. We have practice.”

Ginny let out a breath. “What about Ms. Hale?” she suggested, surprising herself. “She knows more than she pretends to.”

He thought of the way their art teacher’s gaze lingered on their sleeves, of the pamphlets she kept in her bottom drawer about stress and counseling and hotlines. “She does,” he agreed. “We could… start there. With art. With something safe.”

“Safe,” Ginny repeated, rolling the word in her mouth like a foreign language. “I like that.”

“Me too,” he said.

They were still teenagers, still steeped in drama and hormones and unhealed wounds. They would mess up again. They would burn and cut and smoke and lie and cry. They would also call and hug and paint and laugh and reach.

The last chapter of their high school life was not a neat recovery arc. It was a compilation of small, stubborn choices. Choosing not to buy a new lighter. Choosing to text instead of slice. Choosing to swallow a bite of a sandwich instead of letting their stomachs gnaw themselves. Choosing to answer the phone at three a.m.

Months later, they would sit under the oak tree at the end of their street, backs against the rough bark, a shared sketchbook balanced between their knees. Faint scars would crisscross their arms and thighs, faded some, fresh others. Newer lines would be interrupted, shorter, less frequent.

They would talk about art school applications, about part-time jobs, about Ginny’s first tentative session with a therapist Ms. Hale had gently steered her toward, about Marcus’s aunt sitting with him on the back steps while he finally rolled his sleeves up and said, “It has been bad.”

They would not be fixed. Their parents would still be complicated, their brains still prone to storms. But under the tree, in the thin light of a new season, they would draw together.

On the page, they would sketch two figures, backs touching, facing opposite directions. One facing a house with a man at the door holding a report card like a weapon. The other facing a sleek building with parents talking dollars over dreams. Between the figures, they would draw a third shape: an easel, a canvas, a shared paintbrush.

Around the trio, they would sketch thin lines like old scars, then shade them into something like roots.

They would not throw away every blade or lighter in the world. They could not. But in their hands, between them, tools would slowly shift purposes.

Canvas instead of skin.

Lines instead of wounds.

Fire for melting old habits instead of making new ones.

Pain would not vanish. Urges would not evaporate. Recovery, if they ever reached for that word, would be something they lived, not a finish line they crossed.

What they had, for now, was this: a boy and a girl in love, bruised and bandaged, willing to look at each other’s worst and say, “I am not leaving because you are broken. I am staying because you are trying.”

In the quiet after panic, petals dropped on a bathroom floor, bandages wrapped by shaking hands, kisses placed on old scars, they had found something fragile and fierce.

Not a cure.

A choice.

To keep living.

To keep reaching.

To keep creating.

Even, and especially, when their own bodies had once been their canvas for hurt.