Page 45 of True Colors

She does.

Empty. Still nothing.

“What’s going on?”

“She’s dying,” she whispers. Her voice is now almost childlike. “I don’t know how to feel about it.”

Not one fucking stutter.

What happened to her? What’s going on?

“Who’s dying?” I ask softly.

She lets out a brittle laugh—the kind that has no joy in it. “She is.”

Still no stutter. Not a single broken syllable.

Something inside me goes still.

“Anouk,” I say gently, keeping my voice low. “Who’s dying?”

She blinks, once, twice, as if her brain is lagging behind her mouth. “I just…I don’t know how to feel about it.”

Her voice is calm—a flat line.

I inhale sharply.

She looks down at her hands in my grasp, as if they belong to someone else. “I should feel something. I should feel sad or angry or relieved or…something, right?” She swallows. “But it’s just blank in my head. Like someone turned off all the lights.”

Ah, hell.

I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t even know who is dying and why she’s in shock.

I shift closer and, carefully—not pushing, not assuming—place my arm around her shoulders.

She stiffens for half a breath.

Then she collapses into me. Leans into me, like her bones are giving up their job and trusting mine instead.

I wrap both arms around her, pulling her gently against me.

She’s shaking. Tiny tremors. Barely there. They break me.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” she whispers repeatedly into my shirt. “I don’t know what the right feeling is.”

“There isn’t one,” I murmur. “There’s no script for this, Anouk.”

“I don’t want her to die.”

Pause, a soft moan.

“I don’t want her to live either.” Emotion cracks her voice.

She presses her forehead to my chest. My hand moves on instinct, stroking her hair, wanting to comfort her.

“You’re allowed to feel all of that,” I whisper. “Or none of it. There’s no right answer.”

She shudders and grips my sleeve tightly, as if she needs something to keep from falling.