Chapter 6
I regretted saying yes almost as soon as the words left my mouth.
Looking at him now, I couldn’t help but worry–could he really still carry me on his back?
So when I leaned against him, I was extra careful, frightened that he might stumble beneath my weight.
For a moment, he actually seemed lighter, as if something had eased inside him.
He was always so pale and weary, but now he managed a faint smile. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he murmured.
He hoisted me onto his back, his voice gentle. “Let’s go home.”
My eyes stung suddenly, a tight ache building in my chest.
And then, without warning, tears spilled down my cheeks, dropping onto his shoulder.
He paused mid–step, just for a second. Maybe he felt it. Maybe he didn’t.
I bit down hard on my lip, trying not to make a sound.
But I couldn’t help remembering.
For so many years, over and over, Jasper Green would wait for me in the dark, just outside the porch light.
He’d call out from a distance, voice anxious, “Claire, over here!”
Always worried I’d miss him, or get lost.
Whenever I pouted and complained that I couldn’t walk another step, he’d kneel down and say, “Come on, hop on. Let’s go home.”
But then he left me behind.
He said, “I’m not your brother.”
He said, “You need to get it straight–don’t come looking for me anymore.”
In a single night, I lost my parents and my brother who cared for me.
That same night, they told me I had post–traumatic stress disorder.
The same memories and nightmares played out again and again: the trembling floor, the chandelier shattering above our heads, my parents‘ arms around me, repeating the same desperate words.
“Claire, stay awake…”
“Don’t sleep, don’t sleep…”
“That’s just a recording.”
Chapter 6
“Ms. Green, it’s just a recording…”
Jasper’s furious voice, sharp and accusing.
And then the spiral into depression.
My therapist would tell me, “Maybe your brother could come in for a session. Talk things. through.”
But by then, everything at home had fallen apart.
Jasper had just turned eighteen, thrown straight into the family business, forced to grow up overnight. The pressure changed him–hardened him.
He shouldn’t have to bear the burden of my broken mind on top of everything else.
The memories kept coming, painful and out of control.
My body trembled; I could hear soft, broken sobs–maybe the wind, maybe me.
Frederick Austin’s voice cut through the silence. “Star.”
I tilted my head up, searching the sky, but the night was empty and black.
“There aren’t any stars,” I whispered.
He didn’t say anything else.
Not until we reached the villa’s door, when he finally spoke. “We’re home, Star.”
Oh. He was calling for someone.
Frederick Austin, young and successful, the rising star everyone talked about.
He once had a sister, Carmen Austin, whose nickname is Star.
We passed through the iron gate, and Frederick set me down gently inside.
He turned to look at me, his expression softening as if he wanted to say something. But when he saw my face, he froze for a moment, startled.
Eventually, we all have to return to reality.
He watched me for a while. Then the strange look faded, and he was calm again.
As we walked inside, he asked, kind as ever, “Do you want the fish grilled or poached?”
“Poached,” I said. “Something light.”
Considering his health, heavy food probably wasn’t a good idea.
We washed and prepped the ingredients, cooked, and ate in near silence.
Halfway through the meal, Frederick looked up. “Actually, I… about us-”
He hesitated, searching for words, as if he couldn’t bear to keep lying anymore.
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Chapter 6
pretended not to hear. I ladled some of the fish soup into a bowl and said, “It’s a little spicy. Maybe use less chili next time?”
His eyes flickered with some inner struggle.
After a long pause, he finally nodded. “Alright.”
He nudged a glass of water toward me. “Here, have some water, Claire.”
After dinner, he tidied up a guest room for me before retreating to his own to rest.
But I couldn’t sleep that night. Sometime after midnight, I slipped out to get a glass of water.
As soon as I stepped into the hallway, I heard it–the harsh, wracking coughs coming from the room next door.
And something else. The sound of retching. Over and over, relentless.
The noise made my skin crawl.
I knocked on his door, but there was no response–just more violent coughing and dry heaving.
I tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.
I pushed the door open and in the dim moonlight, I saw him sitting hunched over on the couch.
The air was thick with the smell of smoke and whiskey. He was bent over, bracing himself with one hand on the couch, the other clutching a trash can at his feet, his whole body shaking.
I didn’t turn on the light. I just walked to him.
In that ghostly light, I could see dark stains on the carpet at his feet.
End–stage heart failure often meant coughing up blood.
And the cigarettes and alcohol scattered around him–he was killing himself faster.
Several bottles of sleeping pills, white and unmarked, lay discarded in front of him, mixed in with the rest of the mess. One bottle had spilled, pills scattered across the coffee table.
Maybe he’d tried to take some, but his hands shook too much.
When he heard my footsteps, he looked up.
He scrambled to sweep the bottles and pills into a drawer, fumbling to hide the evidence. He tried to hide the cigarettes and whiskey too, but he must have realized I’d already seen everything.
Blood stained the corner of his mouth. He stared at me, lost and in pain.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t be like this–not as your brother.”
I sat down beside him in silence. “Do you really want to die?” I asked.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was asking him–or myself, the part of me that had wanted to
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Chapter 6
end it all, time and time again.
Did I really want to die?
Was it truly impossible… just to try living, one more time?
Frederick stared at me, dazed.
After a long moment, he finally answered, lying to himself, “It’s just… because I’m terminally ill.”
I looked at him in the moonlight. “But what if you could get a new heart–a transplant? What then?”
His face trembled, but he didn’t reply.
After a while, I spoke again.
“Hey… Should we try to live? Just try?”
In this world, where no one pays us any mind, what if, instead of slipping quietly away, we tried to keep going?
At the very least, every year, we could light a candle for the family we let down.
At the very least, those who left us–our family–they must have wanted us to live, to try.
Frederick’s whole body shook harder. He covered his face with both hands, voice breaking.
“I lost the right to live a long time ago.”
“That year… she took her own life, just so I wouldn’t spend a fortune trying to save her.”
