It's been three days since the test. Three days since Nancy held my hair back while I threw up for the fourth time that morning. Three days since Robin looked at me with those knowing, terrified eyes and said, you need to tell him, Y/n. You need to tell them all.

I've been putting it off. Pushing it down. Telling myself that Vecna, the gates, the end of the world—those are the things that matter. Not this. Not the tiny, impossible truth growing inside me.

The porch light flicks on.

The door swings open, and Lucas is standing there, mid-sentence to someone inside, his smile faltering when he sees my face.

Behind him, I can hear Mrs. Sinclair calling out, Lucas, who's at the door? and the clatter of pots in the kitchen. The whole house smells like home. Like safety.

I don't deserve to walk in there and ruin it.