Funny how fast things shift when you stop bracing for the worst. I'm not saying life is perfect now or anything, but it's quieter. Still. Like something finally unclenched in my chest and let me breathe for real.

Mabel is doing better. She actually talks to her therapist, which is more than I expected. Sometimes she tells me about the sessions in little bursts—like she's testing the weight of her own voice again. I just listen. No pushing, no fixing. That's new for me. I used to think I had to solve everything. Now I'm just trying to be there.

I don't feel broken anymore. Tired, yeah, but no longer wrecked.

Newt and I didn't have some big talk after Brentwood. No heart-to-heart, at least. No breakdown, no scene. We got on the train, came home, unpacked the bag, and kept going. But something shifted.

He doesn't pull away anymore. I don't feel like I have to earn his affection with perfect timing or perfect words. We still argue, still roll our eyes at each other, still get on each other's nerves. But it's safe. It's easy, in a way nothing ever was before.

Today, he sat on the kitchen counter while I cooked. Not helped—just sat there, eating pieces of chopped pepper and talking about a philosophy lecture that I didn't understand even half of.

"You know what's kind of stupid?" he said, legs swinging a little. "Plato's whole theory of forms. Like, okay, there's a perfect version of a chair somewhere in the universe? Why does it matter? I just want a chair that doesn't squeak."

I flipped the pancake. "I think the point is about ideals. The perfect version of things."

"Yeah, but idealism's a trap," he muttered. "People think they want perfect until they realize it's not real. It's just something to chase while they ignore what's right in front of them."

I didn't say anything. He was talking about philosophy, but it felt like he wasn't. Newt does that sometimes. He pretends he's not handing you the truth when he is.

"Do you think people are born with meaning or do we make it up as we go?"

I blinked at him. "You're asking me that now? While I'm trying to figure out what's rotting in the fridge?"

He didn't laugh. He just waited.

So I said the first honest thing that came to mind. "I think we want meaning so badly that we start calling anything that hurts 'growth' just to survive it."

He was quiet for a moment. "That's very... Camus of you."

"Is that a compliment?"

He shrugged. "Depends on the day."

I shook my head, scoffing before going back to what I was doing.

He kept sitting there, staring blankly at the wall. He always did that. He would laugh, make smart remarks, yet, after things would get quet, his eyes would become lifeless. It terrified me.

"You know..." he spoke suddenly, and my attention was immediately drawn back to him. "I had a friend at the camp. Her name was Maliah."

"Where is she now?"

"She died. I don't know where she was buried, and the feeling of not knowing kind of eats me alive."

I didn't answer, knowing that he started to tell the story for purposes.

"She believed that everyone was put on earth with a purpose. It was on us to figure out what kind of mission we had, but the entirety of our existence was to make the world a better place before leaving it."

"That's a nice belief." I smiled gently, glancing at him for a second before looking away again.

"I'd like to believe that her purpose was to make my life bearable just by being in it. Because otherwise, it means that she left this world without getting a chance to live in it in the first place."

"Can I ask how did she die...?" My tone was careful. I didn't want to upset him, nor did I want to make him uncomfortable.

"She—" his voice cracked as he threw his head back. "She was assaulted. A lot of times, as they told me afterward." He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. "They didn't tell me one particular reason, but they told me that the main thing that caused her health problems was that."

"I'm so sorry."

"What..?"

I turned around, looking at him with glassy eyes. I couldn't take it. The guilt that clawed at my heart was unbearable. "You went through that because of me. I'm the reason you ended up there, I'm the reason—"

"Hey, hey stop," his voice softened as he slid himself off of the kitchen counter to come closer. "I thought we had agreed on a fact that none of it was your fault."

He took my face in his hands, like that would make the guilt disappear.

"Look, shit happened, okay? That doesn't mean that I blame you for any of it. When I tell you these stories, it's only to open up. Isn't that what you asked me to do?"

I nodded, looking at his eyes which flickered on my lips before looking up again.

His hands were still on my face, gentle but firm. I didn't move. Neither did he. For a second, it felt like we were frozen—caught in the space between forgiveness and something quieter, older than words.

"I want you to stop punishing yourself," he whispered. "I already forgave you. I just need you to catch up."

My throat burned. I nodded again, slower this time. His thumbs brushed beneath my eyes, soft enough to feel like an apology. Or maybe a promise.

He let go, stepping back just enough to lean against the counter again. I turned around and stirred something in the pan that didn't need stirring. The silence between us was full, but not heavy. Like a song winding down.

After a minute, he cleared his throat. "Anyway. That's why I think the whole 'born with meaning' thing is bullshit."

I snorted. "That's one hell of a transition."

He smirked, but his eyes stayed far away. "I just think... meaning isn't a starting point. It's what we build. Or break. Or carry, when it's someone else's."

"You mean like hers."

"Yeah." His voice softened. "Like hers."

I plated the food in silence. He took his without a word and sat at the table, knees pulled up, fork idly poking at the pancake. We ate side by side, no rush.

After a while, he said, "You know what Kierkegaard said? That life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you call Plato stupid."

He grinned around a bite. "Fair."

But then he looked at me, serious again. "I guess I'm just trying to live forward now. Even if the past still hurts."

Something in my chest twisted. I reached across the table, barely brushing his fingers. He didn't move. Just turned his hand so our palms could rest together, steady.

It wasn't romantic. Not in the way people usually mean.

It was better.

It was trust. Shared weight. A mutual decision to keep choosing the hard, beautiful act of staying.

And maybe that was the meaning we'd built without realizing it. Not some grand purpose written in the stars. Just this: healing, slowly. Together.

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