The Start 29

Jake’s POV

I saw her fall.

The image burned itself into my mind, permanent and merciless.
One second, she was clinging to the tree outside her window — her hair whipping in the wind, her hoodie riding up to expose a strip of skin — and the next, her hand slipped.

And she was gone.

I shouted her name, again and again, desperate and useless.
“Lily! Lily!”
But my voice couldn’t catch her.

I ran.

Faster than I had ever run in my life, my shoes pounding against the pavement, the air clawing at my lungs with every breath.

By the time I reached her driveway, her parents were already there, screaming.
Her mother knelt by the hedge, pale and trembling, while her father paced in frantic circles, yelling into his phone.

And Lily —
Lily was crumpled on the grass.
Still.
Too still.

I dropped to my knees beside her, the world tilting sideways around me.

“Lily,” I said, my voice cracking. “Hey. Hey, come on, open your eyes.”

Blood trickled from her temple. Her arms were limp at her sides. Her lips were parted slightly, as if she had tried to scream but never got the chance.

“Lily,” I begged, my hands hovering uselessly over her, afraid to move her, terrified I would somehow make it worse.
“Please. Just breathe,” I whispered. “Please. Just breathe.”

She didn’t move.

And something deep inside me — something I didn’t even know I had left — broke.

With shaking hands, I fumbled for my phone, pressing 911 like it was my only lifeline.
“Emergency services, what’s your location?” a voice asked, sharp and efficient.

“She fell,” I choked out. “She—she fell out of the window. Head injury. Please—she’s not waking up.”

I gave them the address, trying to keep my voice steady, but failing miserably.

The operator kept talking, her words fading into meaningless static as I dropped the phone and cupped Lily’s face gently between my hands.

“You said you weren’t going anywhere,” I whispered, my forehead pressing against hers. “You said I had you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“You’re not allowed to leave me,” I said. “Not you. Not again.”

The ambulance pulled up five minutes later, though it felt like hours.
Paramedics rushed out with a stretcher, hooking Lily up to machines, checking her pulse, checking her breathing, checking her eyes.

I couldn’t stop crying.

Raw tears streamed down my face, constant and unstoppable, as if they had always been there.

Her mother tried to speak to me, but I didn’t hear a word.
Her father shouted something — something about how this was all my fault — and for a split second, I almost hit him.
But I didn’t.

Because all I could see was Lily.

At the hospital, I sat in the waiting room like a bomb ticking down to its last second.
Every nurse who passed, every door that opened, every second that ticked by on the clock — I died a little more.

And then, finally —

“She’s stable.”

The words hit me like air after drowning.

“She has a concussion,” the nurse said. “Some bruising, but she’s responsive. We’ll monitor her overnight.”

I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

The nurse gave me a look full of sympathy.
“You can see her soon,” she said.

I nodded again, forcing my legs to stand.

When I turned, I found her parents standing behind me.

I didn’t hesitate.

“You did this,” I said.

Her father blinked, as if he hadn’t heard me correctly.
“Excuse me?”

“You dragged her. Controlled her. Scared her,” I said, the words sharp and cutting.

“We were trying to protect her,” he said stiffly.

“No,” I said. “You were breaking her.”

Her mother’s mouth twisted with anger.
“You have no right to speak to us like this,” she snapped.

“I have every right,” I growled back. “Because I’m the one who pulled her off that bridge.”

They both stared at me, stunned.

“She was going to jump,” I said. “And you didn’t even see it.”

“She never said—” her mother started, but I cut her off.

“She didn’t think you’d listen.”

I stepped forward, closing the space between us.

“When I met her, she was exhausted,” I said. “She was dying inside. And you —” I pointed between them — “you only made it worse.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“And what are you?” she sneered. “Her savior?”

“No,” I said, standing my ground. “I’m just the one who was there when she needed someone.”

Her father’s face darkened.
“You think we’re just going to let her throw her future away?”

“She doesn’t owe you her future,” I said.

The words hung between us, heavy and unmovable.

Then I said the thing I had never said out loud before.

“My brother’s dead.”

They stiffened immediately.

“He was the golden boy,” I said. “Straight-A student. Full ride. Captain of everything.”

I took a deep breath that rattled through my chest.

“And he killed himself,” I said, steady and sure. “Because our parents only ever saw what they wanted him to be — not who he really was.”

I stepped back.

“So you can be angry,” I said. “You can even blame me if you want.”

I paused, locking eyes with both of them.

“But don’t ever tell me you love her,” I said, “if you’re not willing to let her be who she is.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away.

Ten minutes later, Erin, Maisy, and Willow came rushing into the hospital, wide-eyed and breathless.

“She’s okay,” I said before they could ask, my voice rough with exhaustion.

Tears spilled down all their faces, uncontained and relieved.

And for the first time in what felt like forever — maybe for the first time in my whole life — I didn’t feel alone.