renee walker’s depressive episodes are unlike anything andrew has ever seen before. she stops smiling and helping everyone around her, slipping into a state close to a coma, and even he finds it alarming. they can last for weeks, but the worst part is: if you don’t look closely, you won’t notice a thing. this isn’t the kind of wound you can quickly patch up with a band-aid.
there’s enough pain in her to fill the entire planet. renee isn’t fading away completely, no, it’s just that the light she gives off is changing its angle of refraction. andrew has no instructions for situations like this, because in his family, bad days unfold quite differently. she continues to carry out her tasks with mechanical precision, tuning out the rest of the world.
“are you okay?”
renee waves it off, saying it’s no big deal. she probably picked up this silly habit from nicky; his cousin does it all the time, too. why are the people he cares about so fragile? renee twirls a cross in her hands, clenching it tightly in her palm. it’s probably the only pain she can still control, and that’s exactly why she allows herself to feel it.
“give me back my knives.”
“you don’t need this, walker.”
renee snorts, tilting her head back against the chair’s headrest, but she doesn’t press the issue. andrew knows her better than anyone else around, and he doesn’t give her a chance to make a mistake. that’s probably why she can call him her best friend without hesitation.
