Page 36 of Moonflower
I know Cora will understand. But this is different, you know? How could she be attracted to someone who can’t find the motivation to get out of bed some days? Hell, I usually don’t even want to exist.
“Cora.” I run my fingers through her soft curls. I swallow. Fuck, I don’t want her to take this the wrong way. What if she feels like it’s because she’s not enough for me? “I love you. You know I love you.”
She nods, smiling even though her brown eyes are worried and her brows are furrowed.
“But I . . . Sometimes I don’t want to . . .”
“Be alive?” she whispers.
I nod.
“I already know that.” She chews on her lip for a moment, and then it clicks. “It’s gotten worse?”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mumble.
“Yes,” Wilder butts in. “It’s gotten so much fucking worse.”
Cora’s shoulders sag. “You never went to the therapist I told you about?”
“No.” I can’t look at her. Can’t do it. I know she’ll be disappointed, and I just can’t face it.
Wilder stays silent, watching us both. No doubt, he’s already sick of this conversation. How many times has he tried—and failed—to drill into my brain all the things Cora has tried to tell me in the past? Too many.
Cora cups my face in her hands, forcing me to meet her gaze. “I know it’s hard, Ez.”
I grit my teeth. Her first couple years here, Cora struggled with making friends. A lot of it had to do with a lack of motivation to take care of herself. To do anything, really. She’s struggled with depression since we were teens. Moving away from home was a huge adjustment for her, and it made her downspiral pretty hard our freshman year.
It was around then that she started avoiding me and Wilder. We were worried as hell, but we weren’t sure what to do. And any attempts we made to get her to open up usually backfired.
I remember being so frustrated that I wanted to drive out here, corner her, and force her to spit out what she was thinking. So I can only imagine her and Wilder feel a similar way about me now.
“Therapy can be scary, I get it. And so can meds. I’m not saying you have to do either of those things. But . . . maybe we can come up with something?”
Cora’s eyes are wide and so full of concern I’m afraid she might start crying. I get it. Hearing that someone you love is depressed is scary.
“All right,” I mutter. “We will.”
And I mean it, too. It’s not like I enjoy being miserable. The thought of being happy just seems so far off. Even the concept of being at peace—with myself, our future, life in general, everything—seems virtually impossible.
“You know she doesn’t look at you differently because of this, right?” Wilder says. His voice is firm, but not in an impatient way. He’s worried—probably rightly so.
When I don’t reply, Cora wraps her arms tight around my torso. “Who you are is who you are. That doesn’t change because you’re depressed. I’d never love you less because of it.”
“Maybe I’m not the same person,” I mumble.
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t . . . I’m not the same. I haven’t drawn in weeks. Half the time I barely eat. My sleep schedule is a mess, I don’t care about school anymore, and I rarely have energy to do anything more than the bare minimum.”
“That doesn’t change who you are,” she says gently. “You’re still the thoughtful, sweet, introspective boy I’ve always known. Just look, you drove five hours yesterday to surprise me for the weekend.”
“That was Wild’s idea,” I mutter.
“And whose idea was it to get me cinnamon rolls and a pumpkin spice latte?”
“Not mine,” Wilder says.
Cora beams up at me. “See? Not only did you remember I love both of those, but you thought to get them for me. That’s a very Ezra Grey thing to do. So you’re still in there, I promise. And I’ll love you no matter what. Forever, Ez.”