Chapter 11

The knock on the door pulls Kara from the numbness that had settled over her, a thick, heavy fog since Lena stormed out of the apartment. She had messed up again. The weight of it clings to her limbs as she rises slowly, as though it takes everything she has just to cross the room. She should have known it would be Alex. It's always Alex. Alex, who hovers like a lifeline above stormy waters, unwavering no matter how wild the currents below. And Kara clings to her every time her relationship with Lena teeters on the brink—every time she's punched another hole in the hull of what they've built.

"Kara..." Alex's voice is soft, a mix of understanding and pity that Kara immediately recoils from. She can't stand the look in her sister's eyes, the way it makes her feel fragile. She doesn't deserve pity. She's the one who's to blame, again and again, for the wreckage she leaves behind. And understanding? Kara doesn't even understand herself these days.

"Let's go, Kar," Alex says as she steps into the apartment, already moving with the quiet efficiency Kara has come to rely on. Drawers open in the bedroom, the rustling sound of clothes filling a duffel bag filters through the thick silence. Then the clinking of glass from the bathroom. A zipper is pulled closed. Alex is packing up her life for her, as she always does, because Kara can't even do that right anymore.

Kara sinks onto the sofa, her hands trembling in her lap. Last night was a mistake—another in a long line of mistakes. It had been a hard day, an impossible choice between a bus full of children and a plane carrying hundreds. Kara chose the plane, as she had to, but 33 lives on the bus were lost. Lives she couldn't save. She'd failed. And the guilt clung to her like a second skin, unbearable. She only meant to clear her head, just a quick flight around the city to shake off the weight of it all, but the text had come at exactly the wrong moment: "New stuff in town, interested?" She hadn't been strong enough. Again. The self-loathing eats away at her now, gnawing at every corner of her mind.

"Kar..." Alex kneels in front of her, her warm hands wrapping around Kara's cold ones. The touch anchors her, but barely.

Kara's eyes blur with tears, and she swipes at them uselessly, tasting the salt at the corners of her lips.

"I messed up, Alex." Her voice cracks, barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves hurt to say.

Alex nods, silent, as she brushes the tears away with her thumb, her expression unreadable, but there's a quiet determination in the way she moves.

"I've been looking into a clinic," Alex begins carefully, her voice betraying a hint of hesitation. "A rehab clinic… for aliens. I think it could help."

Kara doesn't look up. She doesn't know how to respond, the weight of her own shame pressing down too heavily for words.

"Okay," she whispers, her voice almost lost in the stillness of the room.

And then, quieter still, „Lena?"

Alex's grip on her hands tightens, just a fraction. "She needs space, Kar. Let's focus on getting you better first, okay?"

Kara nods slowly, the bitter taste of guilt still lingering on her tongue.

xxx

Kara shifts restlessly in the large burgundy armchair, her fingers tracing absent patterns over her thighs. The stoic calm of her therapist only amplifies the unease curling in her stomach. She rubs her hands more firmly over her legs, trying to ground herself, but all she feels is the rising burn beneath her skin.

"Miss Danvers," the therapist begins, his voice measured, like always. "Your doctor mentioned you refuse to take the medication."

Kara doesn't respond. The familiar silence stretches between them, thick and oppressive.

Three weeks. Three weeks of this place. Three weeks of not wanting to be here. She doesn't want to take medication. She wants to get out. She wants to be with Lena. She needs to be with Lena.

"Would you like to tell me why you won't take the medication?"

Still, Kara says nothing. Her jaw clenches against the words she refuses to speak, and her gaze drops to her hands, where her fingers curl into tight fists.

Her therapist, calm and unhurried, mirrors her silence. For the past two weeks, this has been their ritual—he asks, she doesn't answer. He waits, she doesn't budge. In the first week, she hadn't even had the strength to participate. The withdrawal had consumed her body, every minute a hellish reminder of what she had been running from. In some twisted way, that sickness had been a comfort. At least then, she hadn't needed to speak.

The clock on the opposite wall ticks loudly, each second a sharp cut through the dense silence, slicing at her nerves. Kara presses her palms harder against her thighs, the friction doing nothing to calm the fire beneath her skin. Each tick of the clock echoes in her head like thunder, too loud, too unbearable.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

She grinds her teeth, biting back the scream bubbling in her throat. Her skin is burning, just like it had burned in those last days with Lena. Lena, who had always been there, who had known exactly what to do when Kara's body betrayed her like this. Lena would cool her burning skin with ice cubes, soothe the itching with cream, guide her through walks when the restlessness became too much. Lena had known how to calm the storm.

Kara's eyes sting with unshed tears, a tightness seizing her chest. She won't cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

With a sudden jerk, she rises from the chair, the tension snapping in her like a taut wire. Without a word, she walks out, leaving the suffocating room and her therapist's steady gaze behind. She has to get out before the dam breaks, before everything inside her spills out in front of him.

xxx

"How's she doing?" Sam asks softly once the waitress, who has just set down two cappuccinos, moves out of earshot.

"She's… making progress," Alex replies, her voice calm but edged with something that doesn't quite match her words. "How's Lena?"

„Okay, I think. I don't hear from her much."

Alex picks up two sugar packets, her movements slow and deliberate. She tears them open, pours them into her coffee, and stirs carefully, watching as the latte art heart vanishes into the swirling blend of foam and liquid. There's something about watching it dissolve that feels a little too familiar—like watching something fade away before your eyes and knowing you can't stop it.

Kara. Lena. The weight of everything unsaid hovers between them.

"Kara called me two days ago," Sam says quietly, breaking the fragile silence. Her voice holds the same tension Alex feels creeping into her bones. "Alex, we have to tell her…"

Alex stops stirring, the spoon freezing in the half-empty cup. She leans back with a long, heavy sigh. The kind that carries the burden of too many sleepless nights, too many unspoken truths.

"I know," Alex murmurs. "But it's… it's still too soon."

Sam's gaze softens, her hand reaching out, resting gently on Alex's. It's a simple gesture, but the warmth of Sam's touch against her own rough fingers sends a current through her that she can't ignore. Sam's thumb moves in slow circles, tracing the side of her hand with the kind of gentleness that feels far too intimate, too good. And yet, it's not something Alex can pull away from.

If only Maggie… The thought creeps in, unbidden, bringing with it the familiar sting of guilt. Too many nights have passed where Alex lay awake next to Maggie, pretending the distance between them wasn't growing wider, or fought with her over things they used to laugh about—Kara, her job, or the impossible ache of wanting children that's taken root deep in Alex's heart.

Sam's phone rings, a sharp interruption that makes Alex's hand twitch. With a final soft squeeze and a smile that sends a shiver down her spine, Sam withdraws her hand, answering the call. Alex lowers her gaze, staring into her coffee like it might offer some kind of answer, some clarity. She doesn't want to eavesdrop. She doesn't want to be thinking about Sam's touch, or the warmth it left behind.

The call is short. Sam looks at her with an apologetic smile. "I have to go, Alex. I'm sorry." She rises from the table, leans down, and plants a featherlight kiss on Alex's cheek. It's subtle, but Alex swears it lands just a little too close to her lips.

"Tell her, Alex," Sam whispers, her voice soft but resolute.

And then she's gone. Alex stares at the door long after Sam has disappeared through it, her heart a knot of emotions she can't untangle. The feelings that stir inside her are too confusing, too dangerous. She's with Maggie.

But the lingering warmth of Sam's touch refuses to fade.

xxx

"Kara! The painting is fantastic!"

Jane's voice fills the room, her hands waving wildly, her gray mane flying through the air in a joyous frenzy. Kara can't help but smile at the art therapist's boundless enthusiasm—it's infectious, wrapping around her like a warm embrace. Kara likes her. She likes how Jane always seems to pull her out of her thoughts, grounding her with a kind word or a look that says, I see you.

A little while later, as the last of the other patients have left, Kara carefully packs away her easel, lingering in the quiet of the room. Jane approaches her, the energy in her voice softened now, more intimate.

"Your tremor is gone?"

Kara nods. Jane's hand, firm but nearly motherly, lands on her shoulder, and Kara feels a warmth that seeps into her bones, a kind of unspoken encouragement. "That's wonderful, Kara." Kara smiles again, a softer, more reserved smile this time. "How are you otherwise?"

"Better," Kara says with a shrug. "I only have sleepless nights occasionally now."

"I'm really happy for you, Kara. You've made such great progress in the last 12 weeks. You should be proud of yourself."

Kara thanks her, words simple and understated, but she can feel a faint spring in her step as she walks back to her room. Progress. It's a word that tastes new on her tongue, after so many months of stumbling through the fog. This road has been long, winding, and impossibly hard. It took her nearly five weeks before she was ready to speak to her therapist, to push through the weight of her withdrawal symptoms and her own tangled thoughts. Even now, Kara knows the battle isn't over. But she's further than she's ever been.

She sits on her bed, laying her head back and closing her eyes. Twelve weeks. Twelve weeks without the red drug. The thought feels both foreign and familiar, a strange balance between pride and shame. She's on step eight of her recovery, working through the twelve steps of abstinence, despite not technically withdrawing from alcohol. Step eight. She still has to make a list—a list of all the people her addiction has harmed. The names on it come easily at first, flowing from her mind in a rush of guilt and regret. But one name sits at the top of the list, standing above all the others.

Lena.

Kara exhales, the weight of the name pressing against her chest. Lena. Her emails bounce back now, and her calls never go through. Sam and Jess always brush her off, politely but firmly, each time she tries to get through. And then there's Alex, who quietly urges her to wait, to be patient. To give Lena space, time. But Kara feels the ache of it every day. She's never been clean for more than six months. Six months of fleeting hope before it all crumbled. The first relapse happened almost immediately. And then the next, after James got hurt. The third came after Jeremiah... It doesn't even matter why anymore. Astra. The people she couldn't save.

All excuses, she realizes now. Excuses she once clung to, to avoid seeing the truth. The addiction is a part of her. It always will be. But what she's learned in therapy is that she has the power to choose—to act on it or not. And there are people who rely on her. People she relies on. And she's allowed to make mistakes. Supergirl is allowed to fall.

She remembers the moment, a defining one in therapy, when she let herself accept that simple truth: she doesn't have to be perfect. Supergirl might wear the cape, but Kara... Kara is human. Kara can break. Kara can mess up. And most importantly, Kara can forgive herself.

She's learned not to hate herself. Not anymore. Not after all the good she's torn apart in her life—her relationship with Lena, the home they shared, the love they built. Every time, she chose the red drug over those precious things. And now? She's living in a rehab facility, her relationship in ruins, her future uncertain. But she accepts that now. She can't change the past, as much as she wishes she could.

But she can fight for the future. She will fight for Lena's trust. For her heart. For everything they could still be.

And that, more than anything, keeps her moving forward.

xxx

"We need to talk."

It's one of those perfect summer days—the kind that feels like it belongs in a dream. The sun is warm, casting soft golden rays over the park garden, where Kara and Alex sit on a comfortable bench. The light breeze carries the scent of freshly mowed grass and blooming flowers, but despite the beauty around them, Alex's fidgeting fingers betray her nerves. Kara turns to her sister, a flicker of concern passing over her face. Conversations that begin with those three words rarely end well.

Alex sighs deeply, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she gathers the courage to continue. She wishes with all her heart that she could protect Kara from what she's about to say, to somehow shield her from the blow she's about to deliver. But keeping it from her would only make things worse—Kara deserves to know the truth. And it's better that she hears it now, while she's still in the clinic, rather than after she's discharged, when the news might threaten to undo all the progress she's fought so hard to achieve.

"About what?" Kara asks, her voice calm but cautious, her gaze studying Alex carefully.

Alex takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the weight of what she's about to say. "About Lena..." Her words come out softer than she intended. "Kara... Lena's not coming back."

Kara's eyes narrow, confusion flashing across her face. "What do you mean, Alex?" There's an edge to her voice, one that tells Alex she's grasping for something—anything—that might make sense of the words she just heard.

"Kar..." Alex's heart aches as she speaks. "She moved away. Months ago. Just a few days after your last relapse. She made Sam the CEO of L-Corp."

For a moment, there's nothing but silence between them, thick and suffocating. The world around them seems to blur, the bright colors of summer fading as Kara processes the information.

"Okay..." Kara finally responds, though the word feels hollow, as if she hasn't fully absorbed its meaning yet. "Can I call her?" There's a small glimmer of hope in her voice, fragile and fleeting.

"No one knows where she is, Kara." Alex's words are gentle but firm, trying to prepare her sister for what comes next. "She only checks in with Sam via email every few weeks, and that's it."

The emotions play out on Kara's face in quick succession—shock, confusion, anger, and then, finally, grief. It crashes over her like a wave, the realization settling in her bones. "She left because of me..." The words barely leave her lips, whispered like a confession. And then the tears come—unstoppable, falling in silent streams down her bronzed cheeks, each one landing on the light wood of the bench beneath her, leaving dark stains in their wake. "I drove her away."

"Kar..." Alex's voice trembles with empathy, the helplessness of the moment weighing heavily on her. She reaches out to take Kara's hand, but Kara pulls away, her movement sharp and decisive.

"I want to be alone, Alex." Kara's voice is tight, her shoulders stiff as she stands, refusing to let her sister see just how deeply she's hurting. "Please go."

Without waiting for a response, Kara turns and walks back toward the main building, her figure growing smaller with every step, leaving Alex sitting on the bench, the weight of her sister's pain pressing down on her chest. Alex sighs deeply, knowing there's nothing more she can do at this moment. She rises slowly, following Kara's retreating form at a distance, already making a mental note to inform Kara's doctor.