The mental hospital had slowly begun to feel like a home for Amora. No sooner had she made friends and grown used to the place than it was time for her to be discharged. Most of the people at Red Hill looked forward to leaving.

Amora was different. She, admittedly, liked being there. Red Hill had begun to feel like a safe haven for her—safer than home.

Her door had to remain open at all times, and she wasn’t allowed any devices. All of her belongings had been removed so no one would have to worry about her ending her life.

But Amora hadn’t wanted to go home. She’d wanted to go somewhere—anywhere but home. And though home was a good two hours away, it felt as if she were already there.

Talk of discharge dates spread easily among the patients. When Amora heard Lizzy’s, she frowned.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Lizzy’s eyes searched the room until they met Amora’s.

I’m sorry. We’ll talk, Lizzy mouthed.

But Amora already knew. She didn’t need to hear it—didn’t want to hear it. Lizzy was leaving.

Soon their companionship would be broken. Amora couldn’t bear the thought of it.

She slid her journal across the table to Lizzy, who—seemingly unsurprised—took it and opened to a blank page.

Amora watched as Lizzy wrote, her slender fingers gripping the pen with a careful firmness. The sleeve of her too-small shirt rode up slightly, revealing the start of a scar on her wrist.

Amora wanted to kiss the scar.

To touch it gently.

To love every mark on Lizzy’s body.