What really got me—what sank its claws into me—was that Poppy hadn’t entrusted me with her fear of losing control. She hadn’t come to me. And she knew better. Poppy knew I was her shelter. Her home. The foundation that helped her stand. At least, I’d believed her when she told me that. But she’d lied. Poppy didn’t truly believe that. And that cut so fucking deep that it left a gaping wound I wasn’t sure could be stitched.
