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“And that works?”

“Sometimes. Other times I cry, eat while I’m furious, and call it recovery anyway.”

My mouth moved despite the pressure in my chest. “Sounds healthy.”

“It’s incredibly annoying.”

“Most healthy shit is.”

“That’s what my therapist says.”

“You should demand a refund.”

“I would, but she knows too much.”

Charm picked up her fork and took another bite. She did it while looking directly at me, allowing me to see that the confession had not taken the food from her.

Relief moved through me before I could stop it. “I’m glad you got help,” I said.

“I know it doesn’t change what I did.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I’m not telling you because I think it earns me anything.”

“Good.”

“I wanted you to know because you spent a long time believing you could fix me.”

My attention snapped fully to her.

“You couldn’t,” she said. “I loved you, and I still lied. I needed you constantly, but I wouldn’t let you understand what I was asking you to carry. You gave me every version of reassurance you had, and I used it long enough to survive the moment before needing it again.”

The accuracy of it settled beneath my ribs.

Charm looked down briefly before forcing herself to meet my eyes. “I know how exhausting loving me became.”

“Careful.”

“I’m not insulting myself.”

“It sounds close.”

“I’m acknowledging what I did to you.”

“That conversation is heavier than the one I agreed to have.”

“You asked.”

“I asked whether you were healthy.”

“And I’m telling you that I’m healthy enough to understand my illness belonged to me. It wasn’t your failure.”

I held her gaze as the noise around us softened beneath the pressure gathering in my chest.

“Good,” I said. “Because I figured that shit out too.”

Pain touched her expression, but she nodded. She didn’t expect me to reward her for taking responsibility, and she didn’t use her recovery to reach for something I had not offered.