True to her word, Isla had called the next day. Her voice had been steadier, more like herself, as she apologized again for disappearing and promised she was working on it. We'd talked for nearly an hour, about nothing important, just reconnecting. It felt like a step in the right direction.

The rest of the week had been cautiously normal. She'd returned to work. We'd texted throughout the days. Had dinner together twice. Watched a movie at my place, though she hadn't stayed over. It was like we were rebuilding our foundation, brick by careful brick.

But I could feel her holding something back. A tension in her shoulders when we were together. A distance in her eyes sometimes when she thought I wasn't looking. As if she was still bracing for something to go wrong.

I tried not to push. Tried to give her the space to come to me when she was ready. But it was hard, knowing she was struggling and not being able to fix it.

Friday night, I'd had plans with Theo. Just drinks after work, nothing special. I'd invited Isla, but she'd declined, saying she was tired and just wanted to go home and sleep. I'd been disappointed but understood. We couldn't spend every night together, especially when she was still getting back on her feet emotionally.

So I'd gone out with Theo, had a few beers, shot the shit about nothing important. It had been good to get out, to think about something other than my relationship for a few hours. But by the time I headed home around eleven, thoughts of Isla had crept back in.

I found myself wondering if she'd texted while I was out. If she'd changed her mind about seeing me. If she was sleeping peacefully or lying awake, battling whatever demons haunted her on the bad nights.

The rain had started halfway through my drive home, a sudden downpour that made the streets glisten under the streetlights. It was coming down hard by the time I pulled into my apartment complex's parking lot, drumming on the roof of my car.

I didn't notice her at first. The rain was too heavy, the night too dark. It wasn't until I'd transferred into my chair and was wheeling toward the entrance that I saw the figure huddled on the sidewalk near the door. A person sitting with their knees drawn up to their chest, head bowed, shoulders hunched against the deluge.

I rolled closer, a sick feeling of recognition growing in my gut. I knew those shoulders. Knew that hair, though it was now plastered to her skull by the rain.

"Isla?"

She looked up, and my stomach dropped. Her face was a wreck. Eyes swollen and red-rimmed, mascara tracked down her cheeks in black rivers. Her lips were blue, and she was trembling as she registered my presence.

"Go away," she said, the words barely audible over the rain.

"No." I wheeled closer, positioning myself in front of her. "You're literally outside my apartment."

"I shouldn't have come." She wiped at her face, a futile gesture as the rain continued to soak her. "I shouldn't be here."

"But you are. So let's go inside and get you dry."

"No." She shook her head violently. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"I'm already seeing you." I reached for her hand, but she jerked away.

"Don't. Please."

I pulled back, respecting her boundary even as worry clawed at my insides. "What happened, Isla? What's wrong?"

"Everything. Nothing. I don't know." She pressed her palms against her eyes. "I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't be in my apartment anymore."

"So you came here." It wasn't a question.

"I didn't know where else to go."

I wanted to tell her that was progress. That coming to me instead of isolating herself completely was a step forward. But now wasn't the time for pep talks.

"Let's get you inside. Out of the rain."

"I can't. Not yet." Her voice caught. "I need a minute."

"Take all the time you need. But at least let me move you under the awning. You're soaked."

She nodded mutely, allowing me to guide her the few feet to where the building's entrance provided some shelter from the downpour. Once there, she slumped back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She was shaking, though whether from cold or emotion was impossible to tell.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked after a moment.

She shrugged and looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "I'm sorry. I'm a fucking mess."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I do. I keep doing this. Keep falling apart. Keep dragging you into it." Her voice cracked on the last word, and something in her seemed to break with it.

The sob that escaped her was ugly. Raw. The sound of someone who'd been holding themselves together by sheer will and had finally, catastrophically failed. It was followed by another, and another, until she was bent double with them, gasping for air between each wrenching cry.

I'd never seen someone break like this. Not even in rehab, where I'd witnessed all kinds of emotional rock bottoms. This wasn't just crying. This was a complete shattering, as if everything she'd been holding back for God knew how long was pouring out all at once.

I didn't know what to do. Couldn't hold her when she'd pulled away from my touch. Couldn't find words that would make any difference against the force of her grief. So I just stayed. Positioned my chair close enough that she knew I was there, but not so close that she'd feel crowded.

And I waited.

The rain continued to fall around us, a steady backdrop to her sobs. A couple passed by, giving us concerned glances. I ignored them. All my attention was focused on the woman falling apart in front of me.

Gradually, her sobs began to quiet. Not stopping entirely, but becoming less violent, less out of control. Her breathing slowed from desperate gasps to shuddering inhales. She wiped at her face with the sleeve of her already soaked sweater, smearing the mascara further.

"I hate myself," she whispered finally, the words so quiet I almost didn't hear them.

And God, I ached for her. Ached with the knowledge that this incredible, resilient, beautiful woman could think so little of herself. That she could carry so much self-loathing beneath her sunshine smile.

"I don't," I said simply.

She looked up at me, eyes swimming with fresh tears. "You should."

"Never."

"You don't know, Callum. You don't know all the things I've done. All the ways I'm broken. All the bad shit in my head."

"Then tell me."

She shook her head. "I can't. Not without making you hate me too."

"Not possible."

"You say that now."

"I'll say it tomorrow too. And the day after that. And every day until you start to believe it."

She stared at me for a long moment, something like wonder breaking through the despair on her face. "Why? Why are you like this? Why don't you just run from all this crazy like any sane person would?"

"Because I don't think you're crazy. I think you're hurting. And hurt isn't the same as broken."

"It feels the same from the inside."

"I know."

She believed me, I could see it in her eyes. Because I did know. Maybe not her exact pain, but I knew what it was to feel broken beyond repair. To wonder if you'd ever be whole again. To doubt that anyone could see past the damage to the person underneath.

"I should let you go inside," she said after a moment. "You're getting soaked too."

"I'm not going anywhere without you."

"I'm a mess."

"So we'll get you cleaned up."

"You don't have to do this."

"I know I don't have to. I want to." I held out my hand, palm up. "Let me help, Isla. Please."

She looked at my hand, water dripping from her hair onto her already soaked clothes. Then, slowly, she placed her palm against mine. Her fingers were ice cold, trembling against my skin.

"I don't know what's happening to me," she whispered. "I thought I was getting better. Then today it just all came crashing down. All the progress. All the good things. It just felt so far away, so impossible."

"Bad days happen. Even during recovery."

"It wasn't just a bad day. It was like being back at the beginning. Back when I first got out. When everything felt like too much." She squeezed my hand. "I was scared."

"Of what?"

"Of myself. Of what I might do if I stayed alone with these thoughts."

The words sent ice through my veins. "Isla—"

"I didn't. Do anything, I mean. That's why I came here. Because I knew if I was with you, I wouldn't."

Relief flooded me, so intense I felt lightheaded. "Good. That's good."

"Is it? Relying on someone else to keep me safe from my own brain? That's not healthy, Callum."

"Neither is facing the darkness alone when you don't have to."

She looked down at our joined hands. "I don't know how to do this. How to let someone help. How to not be ashamed of needing it."

"We'll figure it out together." I tugged gently on her hand. "Starting with getting you warm and dry. You're shivering."

She was. Her whole body trembled with cold, lips tinged blue, clothes plastered to her skin. She let me pull her to her feet, swaying slightly as she stood.

"I don't have anything with me," she said. "No change of clothes. Nothing."

"I have plenty you can borrow. T-shirts, sweatpants. They'll be too big, but they'll be dry."

She nodded, suddenly looking exhausted. The breakdown seemed to have drained her of whatever energy had propelled her to my apartment in the first place. She followed me without protest as I led her inside, through the lobby to the elevator.

In the light, she looked even worse. Pale as a ghost except for the patches of red around her eyes and nose. Hair hanging in wet tangles down her back. Clothes dripping onto the tile floor. But it was the emptiness in her expression that worried me most. As if the tears had washed away not just her mascara but something vital inside her.

"Almost there," I said as the elevator doors opened on my floor. "Just a little further."

She nodded, following me like a sleepwalker down the hall to my apartment. I unlocked the door and held it open for her, watching as she stepped inside and stood uncertainly in the entryway, arms wrapped around herself.

"Bathroom's through there, remember?" I said, pointing. "I'll get you some dry clothes."

She nodded again, still not speaking, and moved toward the bathroom with slow, awkward steps, as if her body had forgotten how to work properly. I heard the door close softly behind her.

I sat there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Isla, breaking down outside my apartment in the rain. Looking more wrecked than I'd ever seen her. Admitting she'd been afraid of what she might do if left alone with her thoughts.

It was more than just a bad day. More than lingering effects from our fight at the bookstore. This was something deeper, more fundamental. A crisis of some kind. And I had no idea what had triggered it or how to help her through it.

But I knew I had to try. Had to be there for her in whatever way she needed, even if that just meant providing a safe place to fall apart.

With a deep breath, I headed to my bedroom to find dry clothes for her, my mind still replaying her whispered words.

I hate myself.

And God, I'd never felt more helpless or more determined to prove someone wrong.