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“Not the family. The situation.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“You know what they believe,” Patty said. “They don’t know what’s true. That means you get to make choices with all the information while they don’t.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t force them to care about me.”

“No. But you’re controlling whether they have the information that might change how they feel.”

My blood rushed in my ears. I wanted to reject the argument. I wanted to tell Patty she was being unfair, simplistic, judgmental. But part of me recognized the truth immediately and began searching for exits.

“That’s not why I’m doing it.”

“Then why?”

“Because I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“If I tell them, they’ll leave.”

“They might.”

The honesty hurt again. “You keep saying that as though it’s manageable. But you have a family who cares.”

Patty’s shoulders tensed slightly.

“You don’t know what this feels like,” I continued. “You’ve always had people. Too many people. You can walk away from the group chat for a day and know there will still be twenty messages asking where you went. I can disappear for weeks and nobody notices.”

“I notice.”

I huffed. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I know what you’re saying, and I think it’s cruel.”

Guilt twisted through my anger, but I kept going. “You have family who show up. Cousins everywhere. A grandmother who would organize a search party if you missed Sunday dinner. You’ve never had to wonder whether anyone would realize you were gone.”

Patty’s eyes filled fully now. “I know I’m lucky,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve never been alone.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

I pressed my lips together.

Patty wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “My family loves me,” she said. “My parents aren’t around much, but they gave me an amazing childhood, and they check in on me often. Hilary and Hudson treat me like pack. Grandma Ruth loves me. But Aunt Karen? To her, I’m living proof of a genetic defect in her branch of the family tree. Every time I sell a jacket or post an illustration, she treats it like I’m throwing a tantrum because I can’t shift. She genuinely believes my art is just a coping mechanism for being ‘less than.’ Love doesn’t erase every lonely part.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

“No, Sloane, but you’re acting as though loneliness gives you permission.”

“To do what?” My voice was louder now.

“To decide how other people are allowed to love you.”