Andrea sits at Yeila's kitchen table at three in the morning, surrounded by crumpled paper and half-written sentences that all say the same thing in different ways: I'm sorry. I love you. Please don't give up on us.
The words feel inadequate, too small to contain everything she needs him to understand. But she's been released from the hospital with strict orders to rest, to eat, to take care of herself, and the only thing that feels productive—the only thing that gives her any sense of control—is trying to articulate what went wrong and how desperately she wants to fix it.
She starts again, her handwriting shakier than usual from exhaustion and the lingering effects of dehydration:
Kayden,
