Page 29 of Shattered

“You’re pretending I’m not a complete disaster, and it’s infuriating!”

“You’re not?—”

“I got arrested, Axel! For assault! Because I thought I was helping someone and I was completely wrong and now there’s probably going to be charges and I probably just destroyed any progress my ankle made this week—” I stopped, breathing hard. “I’m a mess. We both know it. So stop being so fucking nice about it.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Would you prefer I be unkind?”

“I’d prefer you be honest!”

“I am being honest.” His voice stayed level. “You tried to help someone. You were wrong about the situation. That doesn’t make you a disaster. It makes you human.”

I wanted to throw something. Instead I limped toward my bedroom area, my ankle protesting every step.

“Delia—”

“I’m going to bed.”

I slammed the door closed, listening to Axel move around the apartment. The more understanding he was, the worse I felt. The more he helped, the more aware I became of how much I needed help.

And I hated it.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of breakfast.

Eggs and toast and fruit arranged on a plate like we were in a restaurant. I limped into my kitchen staring at this food I hadn’t asked for, feeling simultaneously grateful and furious.

“Why did you make breakfast?”

Axel looked up from his own plate. “Because you should eat something. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“I’m almost thirty years old. I can decide when to eat.”

“I’m aware. But since I was making food anyway, I made enough for both of us.”

“That’s the problem.” I leaned against the counter. “You keep doing things I didn’t ask for and then acting like I should be grateful for them.”

He was quiet for a moment. “What do you want me to do differently?”

“I want you to ask before doing things! To let me make my own decisions! To stop treating me like a disaster that needs managing!”

“Do you want me to not cook? Not clean? Not help at all?”

“I want you to help only when I ask for help!”

He nodded slowly. Said nothing.

I sighed, deflating. The problem was I didn’t know how to explain that his help made me feel smaller. That every meal he cooked was evidence of my inability to function. That I needed to prove—to everyone, but especially myself—that I wasn’t broken.

Even though I clearly was—and hated admitting it even to myself.

“Fine,” I said finally. “Just… ask first. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I ate my breakfast in silence. It was delicious. I hated that too.

The next day, Axel barely spoke to me.

He made dinner but didn’t make extra. I’d been starving, had actually been looking forward to whatever he was cooking because let’s be honest, my cooking skills maxed out at toast and cereal. But he plated one serving, ate it, washed his own dish, and left mine sitting in the sink.