Bailey and I lie side by side on her bed, staring up at the mottled ceiling. Little patches blemish the paint, leftover scars from the glow-in-the-dark stars that once lived up there.

Almost an hour has passed since the last of our tears were shed, the dried streaks upon our cheeks like a silent symbol of unity.

I wouldn't say it's been a comfortable hour, exactly (although Bailey's mattress could rival even the softest of clouds) but it hasn't been entirely uncomfortable, either.

The first twenty minutes were spent in total silence – the contemplative kind – as we thought back on the conversation that had just taken place.

Obviously I can't speak for Bailey, but I know I had found myself caught up in a whole web of thoughts, staring down the mouth of the giant spider that had suddenly crawled out from the deep, dusty crevices of my mind.

I could feel it spindling away in there, wrapping each new thought inside a silken cocoon, storing them away for safekeeping.

I thought about Bailey's heartbroken accusations, how she must be feeling so lonely and pissed off, let down yet again by the people who are supposed to love her the most. I stressed over her standoffish attitude with the boys, wondering whether I was partly to blame for it – because apparently I've been pitting them against each other in a 'Her vs. Them' war for years... without even realising it.

I thought about my heartfelt assurances, my promise to always be on her side. Somehow, it's a vow that I both stand behind and regret in equal measure – because I know I'll struggle to keep it no matter how hard I try. In regards to Alex, I mean.

I have no idea what to do about Alex, anymore.

I thought about the concert tickets, and the way Bailey's face lit up when she realised what they were. She could barely believe I would do something like that for her, stick my neck out with Stella and George to do something nice for her – because she thinks I don't care. She thinks I find her to be a bitch at worst, and an inconvenience at best.

How did I ever let her start to think that?

Shortly after the twenty minute mark, our introspective silence fell away to idle small talk, which is something we never do. We never just talk.

We tried to keep things light, simple enough to seem only slightly forced: work, school, the weather... that sort of thing.

Bailey reckons she aced that biology exam, by the way.

Throughout the conversation, we shared an unspoken agreement to stay away from any of the more difficult topics. There was no mention of Alex or his brothers, no talk of social services hanging over our heads, and no discussion of our past or my future plans to move away. There was no judgement, no snarkasm and, as a result, there were no arguments.

I know, right? A whole hour spent with Bailey and we didn't have a single argument – who ever thought it possible?

Don't get me wrong, though. It was a little awkward at times. Our speech was peppered with uncertainty. There were many uncomfortable pauses, stale enough that we'd rush to fill them, only to find ourselves talking over one another and stumbling through our words.

By no means was it perfect – but it was a start. It was something.

Then things got a bit heavier when Bailey asked me about Dylan.

Apparently, she had no idea why we broke up, or that I'd lost my best friend as well in the process – which is a testament in itself to our complete lack of communication. So, I spent some time filling her in on the whole unhappy story.

I thought I'd hid my pain quite well, that sad little stutter in my heart that happens every now and then, whenever I think too much about either Dylan or Megan. I clearly didn't hide it well enough, though, because Bailey still saw it.

I knew she had seen it the moment she offered to break Megan's nose for me (with her fist, not a football this time) in an attempt to show her support. Obviously, I said no – although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little tempted by the idea.

Megan probably deserved it, but Bailey definitely didn't deserve the consequences that would be sure to follow.

Shortly after that, we fell back into our 'not-comfortable-but-not-quite-uncomfortable' silence.

Until right now, that is.

"Stella and George think I should go back to therapy."

Unprompted and completely unexpected, Bailey's sudden words take me by surprise. She speaks them so quietly, at first I'm not sure if I heard her right. Then, when she says nothing else, I wonder if she even meant to say them out loud, or if her mouth simply formed the words before her brain could catch them.

Either way, she has officially gone and broken our unspoken agreement, encroaching on a difficult topic. With that one sentence, she has metaphorically morphed the soft mattress beneath us into a potential minefield.

I can barely breathe, let alone speak, for fear of setting one off and exploding us into oblivion.

But then I realise that saying nothing could be just as perilous as saying the wrong thing... so I have to say something.

"...Are you going to?"

I speak with extreme caution, worried that she might flip out and accuse me of prying again. This is her finally talking about something – something real – and I am not prepared in the slightest.

This must be what Stella and George were alluding to when they told me they were 'working on it'. They're trying to get Bailey to agree to some help – proper help, professional help – because they too can see that she's struggling.

When Bailey's silence stretches out between us, I turn my head to look at her, half scared of the reaction I'll find. Only, there's not much of a reaction – there's not much of anything.

She simply continues to stare up at the ceiling, her hands clasped limply across her stomach. Her eyes absently trace the speckled patches above us, darting from one to the next as if filling in some secret dot-to-dot picture that only she can see. Her mouth is relaxed but turned down at the corners, neither a snarl nor a smile, and I have absolutely no idea what she's thinking.

Eventually, she lifts her shoulders in a small shrug and mumbles, "Dunno. Maybe."

It's really not the response I'd been expecting.

There was once a time, in those first few years after we'd been saved by social services, when we'd been made to go to therapy. It had been a mandatory thing, alongside screening tests and other not-so-fun activities.

Cognitive development and wellbeing assessments, is what they called it. Basically, it was a way to determine how fucked up we were on the fucked-o-meter, how detrimental those years of neglect and abuse had been to our development.

We all hated those sessions and nothing – not even the sparkly 'Well Done' stickers we'd receive at the end of them – could change our minds.

But Bailey by far hated them the most.

Each time before a session, before we'd even left the house, she would stand at the bottom of the stairs and scream. When the Crawford's tried to calm her down, she would cling to the end of the bannister like a demented koala and refuse to move.

It was only ever Charlotte or I who could get her to let go of that bannister. With promises that it wouldn't be so bad, and that we'd be by her side the whole time, we'd eventually calm her enough to get her into the car.

Of course, that meant that Charlotte and I could never really show our true feelings towards those sessions, for fear of setting Bailey off again. Brave faced and always smiling, we would sit in the back of the car with her every time, pretending we weren't just as terrified as she was.

People had rarely been kind to us, and so being forced to sit in a room with a complete stranger was something akin to a living nightmare.

But then slowly, over time, I grew to realise that there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. Dr. Parnam, the kind lady with the frizzy red curls and funky blue glasses, wasn't someone I needed to be afraid of. She wasn't there to hurt me, she was there to help me – and she helped me a lot.

Unfortunately, Bailey never shared this realisation with me. She never had that moment of clarity. Instead, she continued to hate those sessions up until the day she stopped having them, and has cussed out any mention of therapy ever since.

Until now, it seems. Maybe.

"It's... maybe not the worst idea," I say softly, hesitant to come off as pushy. I don't want to push; I'm not trying to. This is Bailey's choice... but, damn, do I want her to give it a shot. "I mean, if you think it might help...?"

"It won't."

Her reply comes fast this time, her voice flat but not angrily so – like a deflated tyre that's been driven on for too long, going round and round until it eventually bursts what little air it has left.

It's an emotionless kind of flat, detached and defeated.

"But how..." How do you know unless you try?

I let the question trail off without voicing it, paranoid about pressing her too hard. Right now, she's talking. I don't want to ruin that by overstepping or saying something dumb.

"And I don't want to sit in some stuffy room, talking to a total stranger for an hour," Bailey continues, acting as though I never spoke. She chews on her bottom lip for a moment as if contemplating her next words. Then, she sighs, and under her breath she mutters, "I don't like people."

Although I'm not convinced that last part is true. I don't think Bailey dislikes people, but I think she does struggle to trust them. There's an important distinction there, a difference that I'm only just starting to see.

But she trusts the Coleman's...

The thought twists inside my gut like a serrated knife, sickeningly painful.

Because, of course, only Bailey could start to overcome her issues by putting her trust in the one family she's not supposed to.

What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to know what the right thing to do is in this situation?

How am I supposed to tell her that her trust is misplaced, that she's wrong to trust them? And how am I supposed to ban her from seeing them now that I realise they're some of the very few people she actually does trust?

But yet, at the same time, how can I not?

The pressure of it all makes me want to throw up, the spider in my mind now so tangled in the web of its own making that it can't tell one hairy leg from another. And so, instead of addressing any of it, I choose to focus on the first part of her statement instead. I choose to keep it light and simple, because that's worked pretty well thus far.

"I guess I can see your point," I muse with a wry smile. "The room is bound to be extremely stuffy. And plus, I doubt you'll even get the stickers this time so it's like..." I lift my hands and shrug. "What's even the point, you know?"

Bailey's snort of laughter brings a small grin to my lips, and I can't help but feel a small slither of triumph.

"I kept mine, you know," Bailey says after a short pause. "The stickers, I mean. I still have them, stuck inside the cover of an old notebook, somewhere."

"Hmm," I muse, trying not to show how much that revelation surprises me. With how much she hated those sessions, I figured she'd chucked those stickers the first chance she got. But, again, trying to keep things light, I say, "I'm pretty sure I traded all of mine to Owen for some extra TV time."

This time, Bailey's laugh is closer to a chuckle. "Sounds about right."

Because Owen was a total dork as a kid. For whatever reason, he had been an avid sticker collector between the ages of eight and eleven – and his collection had been impressively lame.

"But you're still considering it," I speak up after a beat or two of silence, cautious but curious. "The therapy, I mean. Even though you're sure it won't help?"

"I guess so," Bailey admits with a frown. She chews on her lip again. "For Stella and George."

Now it's my turn to frown. "For Stella and George?"

"Yeah," she sighs. "It's like you said: they do so much for me and I always throw it back in their faces. And now they're clearly worried when they really don't need to be. So, maybe if I do this for them, they won't be so stressed. They'll realise I'm fine."

And, damn, if she doesn't sound just like me. It's honestly uncanny; I've never felt more related to the girl in my life.

You're not fine, is what I want to tell her. Instead, I say, "You know they really care about you, right? They want what's best for you – just like I do. And Charlotte."

Bailey "hmm's" and pulls a face at the mention of our sister. Confused, I wait for her to elaborate.

She doesn't.

Instead, she says, "I'll stay away from Alex."

I blink, momentarily disoriented by the sudden change of topic. Then, hesitantly, I ask, "You... will?"

Bailey makes a noise of confirmation, nodding. Then, pursing her lips, she adds, "Until August. Like we agreed. Like you promised."

I wince at the bite in her words. She does well to hold it back but she can't hide it completely.

"I'll stop hanging out with him for now – for the two months," she continues. "But I'm still going to text him. I won't stop talking to him. It's not like Karen will check my phone, anyway."

When I don't say anything, she speaks again.

"That's my final offer."

Her words are stubborn but also a little desperate, like she's willing me to accept her terms so we don't have to fall back into the same routine of biting each other's heads off.

I sigh, thinking back on her words from earlier: 'You used to treat me like an equal, not some bratty kid you're forced to live with.'

Unfortunately, treating her as an equal would require me to respect her decisions – both good and bad – even if I happen to disagree with them. It would mean trusting her, and accepting her choice to be friends with Alex.

Because, truce or not, I don't think she's ever going to back down on this.

"You really love him, huh?" I mumble, resigned.

Of course, I don't mean that in the romantic sense of the word. I mean it in the purest sense that there is – a platonic kind of love, built from loyalty and companionship.

I guess, in a sense, I was right to be worried, all along. Bailey loves Alex... even if she's not in love with him.

"He's my best friend," she replies simply, shrugging as though the answer to my question is obvious – which it kind of is.

After a short pause, I eventually give in.

"Okay," I sigh, even as my brain screams at me that this is a mistake. "Two months. Just... be careful, okay? Please? I don't want you to get hurt – or be in any kind of danger."

Bailey turns her head to meet my eyes, offering up a small smile. It's a genuine smile, one that relaxes her face and softens her eyes, but it's also a little sad, too.

"Thanks, Jade," she murmurs, before returning her gaze to the ceiling.

It's certainly not the assurance I had been searching for.

"Bailey..." I start hesitantly, unsure of how to pose the one question I'm dying to ask. After a moment's deliberation, I decide it's better to just ask it up front. "What exactly did you mean when you said the Coleman's 'make you feel safe'? Is... is there some reason why you don't feel safe?"

When Bailey doesn't answer, I turn my head to look at her.

Her eyes are no longer on the ceiling. Instead, they're trained on the wall alongside her bed, staring intently at one of the band posters she has tacked up there. It's an Atomic Arsonists poster – one of the many that she owns.

"Do you know what my favourite Atomic Arsonists song is?" she asks suddenly, completely out of the blue.

I frown, unhappy by the sudden change of topic, but I answer her anyway.

"Storm chaser."

It's not a question. Bailey has raved about the band too many times for me not to know the answer. She's as obsessed with that band as Owen was with his damned stickers.

Bailey nods her confirmation, still staring at the poster. "There's this part in the bridge that goes: 'Even in the darkest of storms, there's lightning in the clouds. So, why not dance in the rain? It's a risk worth taking'."

She doesn't sing the words, but she speaks them soft enough to sound like a lullaby.

"Everyone thinks it's a song about living life to the fullest, but I don't think that's quite true," she muses, chewing on her lip in thought.

I listen to her quietly, confused by her reverie but intrigued all the same. This is something she hasn't said about the Atomic Arsonists before – not to me, at least.

"I think there's more to it than that. I think it's a song about danger," she admits. "That every danger comes with a silver lining, a hidden beauty that's worth the risk of being struck down."

I blink, caught off guard by the depth of her insight. And, for the first time, I think I'm starting to understand Bailey's love for music.

But I'm struggling to understand the relevance.

"I remember the first time I ever heard the song. I heard those lyrics and I thought..." she trails off, considering her next words carefully. "It was the first time I remember thinking that it might actually be worth it, you know?"

No. I don't know.

I open my mouth to speak but I'm interrupted by Stella, her voice carrying up the stairs to remind Bailey that it's her night to clean the dishes. The reminder is enough to break Bailey from whatever spell she seems to be under, and she reluctantly clambers from the bed with a grumbling huff.

"Bailey," I have the mind to call out, just as she reaches the door.

She turns back to look at me from the open doorway, her hand resting on the handle of her door.

When her eyes meet mine, I ask, "What might actually be worth it?"

With another of those soft, sad smiles, she lifts her shoulder in a small shrug and says,

"...The risk."

*********

Hmm... the risk of what, I wonder? Any theories?

So, I've checked my plans and from what I can tell (admittedly, my plans aren't the most organised ones out there) I reckon we have about 15-20 chapters left... maybe?

For a story I initially only intended to be 35-40 chapters at the most, this is turning out to be much longer than I originally anticipated. There have been a few last minute subplots/tangents that I've thrown in as I've been writing, and in order to do the story justice I've had to extend my plan accordingly.

As this is only the first draft, I have plans to edit the story once I've finished. There are definitely parts I know I can restructure/alter/shorten in order to save on the word count... but until then you're all going to have to deal with it, haha.

I know this chapter is a week overdue but, hey, at least it's actually a Thursday update this time! Until next time, happy reading! X