Her voice in my bones

We were sitting under the tree behind the visitor's wing.

The boy from art camp — Elijah.

Now older. Still quiet.

But his silence wasn't empty.

It was the kind of silence you trust to hold your breath.

---

> "Can I ask something?" he said, eyes on the sky.

I nodded.

Not ready.

But not running.

> "Did you want to make it?"

---

That was it.

Not dramatic.

Not whispered.

Just the kind of question that peels skin from memory.

---

I didn't answer right away.

Because the truth wasn't simple.

The truth had phases.

Versions.

Edits I made to keep living easier.

---

> "Some days I did," I said finally.

"Other days… I just didn't want to be erased."

---

He nodded. Slow.

Like that made perfect sense.

Like survival didn't always mean victory.

---

> "They all talk like it was brave," I added, voice barely audible.

"But sometimes I wonder if it was just accidental."

---

Elijah didn't speak.

Just sat there, the way people do when they know better than to rush grief.

Then, after a long pause:

> "I'm glad you stayed."

---

Something in me cracked open.

Not a breakdown.

Not a sob.

Just this small, quiet ache that whispered:

> "So am I."

---

Because even if I didn't fight to survive…

I was finally fighting to exist.

And that counts for something.