The sun was barely creeping over the treetops when Emma opened her eyes. Her limbs felt heavier than they should've, her head stuffed with cotton, but she pushed herself upright anyway. The argument from last night replayed in her mind, sharp and unforgiving. She hadn't meant for things to get so heated—for her words to cut as deep as they had.
Emma rubbed at her face, trying to shake off the lingering weight of regret. She hated this—the messy, uncomfortable aftermath of fights. Hated knowing she'd probably ruined the fragile thing they'd been building over the past few weeks.
Regina had every right to be pissed. Hell, Emma would've been too if the roles were reversed. But Regina wasn't just angry—she was worried. And that… that was harder to stomach.
Emma swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet touching the cold floorboards. She stared at her hands, her fingers trembling faintly as she flexed them. The thought of going downstairs, of facing Regina after everything, made her chest tighten, but avoiding it would only make things worse.
With a deep breath, Emma stood, the room tilting slightly before steadying again. She shrugged it off, brushing a hand through her hair as she headed downstairs.
The smell of coffee greeted her, along with the faint sound of Regina humming softly in the kitchen. It was almost enough to make Emma smile—almost. She hesitated in the doorway, watching as Regina moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, her back to Emma.
"Morning," Emma said, her voice rougher than she'd intended.
Regina glanced over her shoulder, her expression carefully neutral. "Good morning."
Emma lingered in the doorway for a moment longer before stepping inside, her hands shoved into her pockets. "Look, about last night..." she started, her words trailing off as she searched for the right thing to say.
Regina set the mug she'd been holding down on the counter, turning to face Emma fully. Her gaze was steady, but there was a softness there that made Emma's chest ache. "It's forgotten," Regina said simply, though her tone carried an edge of something unspoken.
Emma frowned, her stomach twisting. "You're not mad?"
Regina's lips curved faintly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "I'm not angry, Emma," she said gently. "But I am concerned. And I think we both know why."
Emma's jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists in her pockets. "I'm fine," she said automatically, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears.
Regina's brow arched, a flicker of frustration passing over her features. "You keep saying that," she said, her voice low but firm. "But fine doesn't look like this."
Emma dropped her gaze, her throat tight. She didn't have the energy to argue, not when she could barely keep herself upright. "I don't want to do this right now," she muttered, brushing past Regina to grab a mug from the cabinet.
Regina didn't stop her, but Emma could feel her gaze lingering, heavy with everything she wasn't saying. The silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding, as Emma poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.
The toast Regina set in front of her a few minutes later felt like an accusation, but Emma forced herself to take a bite. It sat like a rock in her stomach, but she kept chewing, determined not to give Regina another reason to push.
Emma sat stiffly at the table, her hands wrapped around the mug of coffee like it was the only thing anchoring her. The toast Regina had set in front of her a few minutes ago remained mostly untouched, save for a single, reluctant bite.
She stared at it, the golden edges blurring as her focus wavered. The smell of it turned her stomach, and the weight of Regina's silent presence across the table pressed on her chest like a boulder.
Regina broke the silence first, her tone calm but unyielding. "Emma, you need to eat."
"I did," Emma mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. She pushed the plate a fraction of an inch away, her fingers trembling as she reached for her coffee instead.
Regina's eyes narrowed, but her voice remained measured. "One bite isn't eating. You know that."
Emma's shoulders stiffened. "I'm not hungry."
"That doesn't matter right now," Regina replied, her words clipped but careful. She leaned forward, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. "Your body needs food, Emma. You can't keep running on fumes."
The words struck a nerve, and Emma's grip on the mug tightened until her knuckles turned white. "I said I'm fine," she muttered, her voice sharp, though it wavered at the edges.
Regina let out a slow breath, clearly trying to rein in her frustration. "You keep saying that," she said quietly, her tone softening. "But I can see you slipping, Emma. And pretending everything's okay isn't going to help either of us."
Emma's chest burned, the weight of Regina's concern making it harder to breathe. She hated this—being seen so clearly, being cared about when she didn't feel like she deserved it. She bit the inside of her cheek, willing the tightness in her throat to go away.
Regina slid the plate a little closer to her, the movement deliberate. "Please," she said softly, the word almost breaking through Emma's defenses. "Just a little more. You don't have to eat all of it, but a few more bites—that's all I'm asking."
Emma stared at the plate, her vision blurring slightly. The toast looked innocent enough, but the idea of eating it—of swallowing it down and feeling it sit like lead in her stomach—felt unbearable.
"Why are you pushing this?" Emma asked suddenly, her voice trembling with the effort of keeping her emotions in check. "Why can't you just… let me be?"
Regina's gaze softened, though her posture remained steady. "Because I care about you," she said simply. "And I refuse to stand by and watch you fade away."
The honesty in Regina's voice hit Emma like a punch to the gut, and she had to look away, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for the toast, breaking off a small piece. She forced herself to put it in her mouth, chewing mechanically as the lump in her throat grew heavier.
"That's it," Regina encouraged gently. "Just a little at a time."
Emma swallowed hard, the bread scraping painfully down her throat. The effort of it—of forcing herself to do something so simple—made her chest tighten unbearably. She took another bite, then another, her movements growing more frantic as the emotions she'd been holding back threatened to spill over.
By the time she'd taken the fourth bite, her hands were trembling so badly that she had to set the toast down. Tears blurred her vision, hot and unwelcome, as her breathing hitched.
"I can't," she choked out, her voice cracking. She pushed the plate away with more force than she meant to, the scrape of porcelain against wood jarring in the quiet room.
Regina was on her feet in an instant, rounding the table to kneel beside Emma's chair. "Hey," she said softly, her voice steady but filled with concern. "Emma, look at me."
Emma shook her head, her shoulders hunching as she stared at her hands. "I'm fine," she mumbled, her voice tight, almost robotic. She tried to steady her breathing, but the trembling in her hands betrayed her.
"You're not," Regina countered gently, her brow furrowing as she knelt closer. "Emma, please."
The crack in her voice was what did it. Emma's composure shattered like glass, and before she could stop herself, the tears were spilling over. A broken sob escaped her lips, and her hands flew up to cover her face as if she could somehow stop the flood.
"I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice raw. "I'm sorry I'm like this. I don't know how to—" Her words dissolved into another sob, her body trembling as she tried in vain to pull herself together.
Regina hesitated for only a moment before gently resting a hand on Emma's arm. "It's okay," she murmured, her voice soft and steady. "You don't have to hold it all in."
Emma shook her head, but her body betrayed her again, leaning slightly toward Regina as the sobs wracked her frame. That was all the invitation Regina needed. She shifted closer, gently pulling Emma down from her chair until they were both kneeling on the floor. Regina wrapped her arms around her, one hand cradling the back of Emma's head, the other resting against her trembling shoulders.
"It's okay," Regina murmured again, her voice a soothing balm. "Let it out. I'm here."
Emma buried her face against Regina's shoulder, her hands clutching at the fabric of Regina's blouse as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the ground. The sobs came harder now, raw and gut-wrenching, as years of buried pain seemed to spill out all at once. Regina held her firmly, her hands moving gently—one smoothing over Emma's hair, the other tracing soothing circles on her back.
"I'm sorry," Emma whispered again between sobs, her voice muffled against Regina's shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how to—"
"Shh," Regina interrupted softly, tilting her head so her chin rested lightly against the crown of Emma's head. "You don't have to apologize. Not for this."
Emma's tears didn't stop, but her sobs began to slow, her breathing still ragged but a little more even. Regina didn't move, didn't let go, not until Emma's trembling started to ease. Even then, her hands lingered, her touch grounding as Emma's head sagged forward, her forehead brushing against Regina's collarbone.
After a long moment, Emma shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to meet Regina's gaze. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with tears, but there was a flicker of something raw and unspoken in her expression.
"I'm sorry," Emma said again, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean for this to—"
"Emma," Regina said firmly, her hands still resting on Emma's shoulders. She waited until Emma's gaze met hers before continuing, her tone soft but resolute. "Stop apologizing. You've been carrying too much for too long. No one can do that forever."
Emma blinked, fresh tears threatening to spill over. She let out a shaky breath, her head dipping forward slightly as the weight of Regina's words sank in.
Regina gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before helping her back to her feet. Emma swayed slightly, her body feeling wrung out, but Regina was there, steadying her with a firm hand on her arm. She guided Emma back into her chair, kneeling briefly to make sure she was settled before standing again.
"Wait here," Regina said softly, her voice calm. She moved back to the counter, busying herself with tidying up the table, though her eyes flicked back to Emma every few moments.
Emma leaned back slightly in her chair, her breathing slow but her limbs heavy. The weight in her chest was a little lighter now, though the exhaustion that remained was bone-deep. She glanced at the plate of toast still sitting on the table, her stomach twisting at the sight of it.
Regina seemed to notice, her brow furrowing slightly as she turned back toward Emma. "You don't have to finish it," she said quietly. "But try to eat something later, okay?"
Emma nodded faintly, though she wasn't sure she meant it. For now, she was just grateful the moment had passed—that she hadn't completely fallen apart alone, even if it felt like she'd come close.
Regina hovered nearby for a moment longer, her gaze flicking between Emma and the untouched plate. "Do you want some tea?" she asked after a beat, her voice tentative but kind. "It might help settle your stomach."
Emma blinked, caught off guard by the offer. "Tea?" she repeated, her voice hoarse.
Regina gave her a faint, wry smile. "Yes, tea. You've had it before, haven't you?"
The smallest of smirks tugged at Emma's lips. "Once or twice."
Regina's expression softened at the sight of Emma's faint humor, and she moved toward the counter. The sound of water running filled the quiet, followed by the clink of the kettle being placed on the stove.
Emma watched her for a moment, the tension in her chest easing just enough to let her sit up a little straighter. "Regina?"
Regina turned, her hands braced lightly on the counter. "Yes?"
Emma hesitated, her fingers twisting in her lap. The words sat heavy on her tongue, awkward and unfamiliar, but she forced them out anyway. "Thanks… for not giving up on me."
Regina's gaze softened further, the corners of her mouth curving into a faint but genuine smile. "Never."
The word settled over Emma like a soft blanket, steadying her in a way she didn't entirely understand. She looked down, a shaky exhale leaving her lips as the weight in her chest shifted again—lighter this time, just a little.
The kettle whistled, breaking the silence. Regina turned back to the stove, her movements smooth and deliberate as she poured the steaming water into two mugs. A moment later, she set one in front of Emma, the faint aroma of chamomile curling through the air.
"Take your time," Regina said gently, settling into the chair across from her. She picked up her own mug, cradling it between her hands as she watched Emma carefully.
Emma wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, the heat seeping into her cold fingers. She didn't take a sip right away. Instead, she stared into the tea, the pale liquid swirling faintly as she tilted the mug. The quiet stretched between them, but this time, it didn't feel heavy. It felt... manageable.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Emma didn't feel like she was completely alone.
The warmth of the morning sun spilled across the porch, painting the wooden planks in soft gold. Emma sat slouched in one of the chairs, her knees pulled up, arms wrapped loosely around them. Her gaze was fixed on the trees beyond the cabin, their tops swaying gently in the breeze.
Regina sat beside her, cradling a steaming mug of tea in her hands. The silence between them wasn't heavy, but it wasn't quite easy either. It was… waiting.
"I don't even know why I'm out here," Emma muttered after a while, breaking the quiet. She didn't look at Regina, her fingers picking idly at a loose thread on her sweater. "Feels pointless, sitting around like this."
"Maybe you just needed a change of scenery," Regina said softly, her voice calm and even.
Emma snorted. "Yeah, maybe."
The quiet stretched again, the sounds of the forest filling the space between them—the rustling of leaves, the faint trill of birdsong. Emma's fingers stilled on the thread, her grip tightening slightly as if she were bracing herself for something.
"I used to hate breakfast," she said suddenly, her voice rough.
Regina blinked, startled by the shift, but she didn't interrupt. She turned her head slightly, her gaze resting on Emma's profile, waiting.
Emma's shoulders tensed, but she kept going, her words coming haltingly, like each one was being dragged out of her. "When I was a kid… in foster care… breakfast always felt like a test." She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "You eat too much, they think you're greedy. Eat too little, they think you're ungrateful. Either way, you lose."
Regina's lips pressed into a thin line, her chest tightening at the quiet pain laced in Emma's words.
"There were houses where they didn't even bother feeding us half the time," Emma continued, her voice quieter now, her gaze distant. "And then there were the ones where they used food as a punishment. You know, make you sit at the table and watch everyone else eat because you didn't do your chores fast enough or you said the wrong thing."
Her jaw clenched, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater. "So, I started… skipping meals. Not just because I had to sometimes, but because I wanted to. It was the one thing I could control, you know? I couldn't control where I ended up, or how they treated me, or when they decided I wasn't worth keeping around. But food? That was mine."
Emma paused, swallowing hard, her throat tight. "Starving… it made me feel safe. Like, if I could make myself smaller—less of a burden—maybe I'd be harder to notice. Harder to hurt."
The confession hung in the air, raw and jagged. Emma finally turned her head, glancing at Regina out of the corner of her eye. "That probably sounds pretty messed up, huh?"
Regina's chest ached as she took in the guarded vulnerability on Emma's face, the way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for judgment. "It doesn't sound messed up," Regina said gently. "It sounds like a child trying to survive in a world that failed her."
Emma blinked, her breath hitching slightly at the quiet understanding in Regina's voice. She wasn't sure what she'd expected—pity, maybe, or discomfort—but not this.
"I guess… I never really stopped," Emma admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even now, when everything feels too big or too heavy, I just… I go back to it. To not eating. Because it's familiar. It's easy."
Regina's fingers tightened around her mug, her heart breaking at the quiet resignation in Emma's tone. She shifted slightly, her knees turning toward Emma. "Emma," she said softly, her voice steady but laced with a quiet intensity, "you're not a burden. You never were. And you don't have to make yourself smaller to deserve care—or to deserve staying."
Emma's throat tightened, her gaze darting back to the forest. "I don't know how to believe that," she admitted, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "Every time I try, it feels like… like I'm lying to myself."
Regina set her mug down on the small table between them, leaning forward slightly. She didn't reach out, but her presence felt closer, warmer, like a steady anchor in the storm of Emma's unraveling. "You don't have to believe it all at once," she said gently. "It's not something that happens overnight. But I'm here. And I'll keep reminding you until you start to see it for yourself."
Emma let out a shaky laugh, scrubbing a hand over her face. "You really don't give up, do you?"
"Not when it comes to the people I care about," Regina replied, her tone soft but firm.
The words landed with a weight Emma wasn't ready for, her chest tightening as her gaze dropped to her lap. She swallowed hard, the rawness in her throat making it hard to breathe.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The forest whispered around them, the sunlight casting dappled patterns over the porch. Emma's fingers twitched against the fabric of her sweater, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear and longing and something that felt dangerously close to hope.
"I don't want to keep doing this," Emma said finally, her voice cracking under the weight of the admission. "I don't want to keep running, or hiding, or… starving. But I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to…" Her voice broke, and she shook her head, unable to finish the sentence.
Regina's expression softened, her gaze steady and unwavering. "You don't have to have all the answers right now," she said gently. "What matters is that you're here. That you're trying. And that you're not alone in this."
Emma nodded faintly, her throat too tight to speak. She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as the tension slowly ebbed away. For the first time in a long time, she felt… not okay, but something close to it. Something she couldn't name but didn't want to let go of.
They sat like that for a while, the silence between them no longer waiting but resting, the weight of Emma's confession settling into the warm quiet of the morning.
Emma shifted in her seat, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the back of her mind. Regina had returned to sipping her tea, her posture composed but not rigid, and Emma noticed the faint curve of her lips—soft, almost content. The sight brought a small flutter of relief to Emma's chest. She didn't know what to say next, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It felt… okay.
Regina cleared her throat, breaking the stillness. "If I may ask, are you always this stubborn, or is it just when you're determined to test my patience?"
Emma blinked, startled by the sudden shift in tone. She glanced sideways at Regina and caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in her dark eyes.
"Me? Stubborn?" Emma said, her voice lightening as a smirk tugged at her lips. "That's rich coming from you."
Regina arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile. "I'm not the one who has to be coaxed, cajoled, and practically threatened into eating breakfast."
Emma snorted, leaning back in her chair. "Threatened? You call that threatening? Please, I've had foster moms who were way scarier than you."
"Hmm." Regina tilted her head, the glint in her eyes sharpening. "If memory serves, I once cursed an entire kingdom. Shall I remind you?"
Emma laughed—a real laugh this time, brief but warm—and shook her head. "Okay, point taken. You're terrifying. But you're also really annoying when you're right."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Regina said smoothly, taking another sip of tea. She set her mug down and leaned back slightly, her expression softening. "Though I have to admit, it's a relief to hear you laugh again. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how."
Emma looked down, her smirk fading into something smaller, quieter. "Yeah, well, it's been a while."
Regina's gaze lingered, but she didn't press further. Instead, she picked up the small plate of almond biscotti she'd brought out earlier and held it out to Emma. "Care to test your bravery further?"
Emma eyed the plate with mock suspicion. "Biscotti? Really? You trying to get me to crack a tooth or something?"
Regina rolled her eyes but smiled. "If you manage that, I'll personally call the town dentist to apologize on your behalf."
Emma snorted again, taking one of the biscotti with exaggerated caution. She bit into it, her teeth crunching through the crisp exterior, and raised an eyebrow. "Not bad."
"Not bad?" Regina echoed, feigning offense. "That's homemade, I'll have you know."
Emma swallowed and grinned. "Let me guess: You cursed the almonds for extra flavor?"
Regina's smile widened, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Perhaps I should have."
They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, their conversation light and meandering. Emma leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders easing as the morning wore on. For a little while, the heaviness that had weighed on her for weeks felt manageable—like she could breathe without the constant ache pressing against her ribs.
It wasn't perfect, but it was enough. And for now, enough felt like a victory.
The day had been long—too long. Emma climbed the stairs slowly, her hand gripping the railing as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her legs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort, and by the time she reached the top, she had to pause, her breath shallow and uneven.
She shook her head, forcing herself forward, one hand brushing the wall for balance as she made her way to her room. The air felt heavy, pressing down on her chest, and her vision blurred at the edges. But she ignored it. She'd been tired before. This was no different.
Her room was dim, the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting faint silver patterns on the floor. Emma closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. The silence pressed in, amplifying the faint ringing in her ears and the sluggish pounding of her heart.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her sweater off, the motion leaving her momentarily dizzy. Pausing, she let out a slow breath, her hands trembling faintly as they gripped the fabric.
It had been a day—a better one, maybe, at least in parts. Breakfast had been rough, the tears, the way her chest had felt hollowed out and raw. But after that... the porch had been nice. Nice. Emma huffed softly, a weak attempt at a laugh as she thought about Regina's biscotti, the soft teasing between them, the way she'd felt... okay, for a little while. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that, or the last time someone had looked at her the way Regina did—like she wasn't just the sum of her broken pieces.
But the lightness of the morning had given way to something heavier as the day stretched on. By late afternoon, Emma had felt that familiar pull—the ache of her body trying to keep going on too little, the weight in her chest dragging her down like an anchor. She'd tried to fight it, to keep the small momentum she'd gained from slipping away, but the effort had left her drained.
She couldn't help but think about how Regina had hovered in the background for the rest of the day, her presence subtle but constant. The quiet way she'd refilled Emma's tea when she thought she wasn't looking. The careful way she'd reminded Emma to rest without pushing too hard. It should've been comforting. Instead, it made Emma's chest ache, a sharp reminder of how much she was failing—failing to get better, failing to meet Regina halfway.
Her stomach grumbled faintly, the sound breaking the stillness of the room. Emma frowned, her hand brushing over the faint hollowness of her midsection. She'd skipped dinner again. She knew she should've eaten, if only for Regina's sake. But the thought of food had turned her stomach, and she'd used the excuse of exhaustion to retreat to her room early. She knew Regina had noticed, though she hadn't said anything. That almost made it worse—the quiet patience in her eyes, the unspoken worry.
Emma exhaled shakily, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Her body ached, a dull throb that radiated outward from her core. She rubbed at her face, trying to push the feeling away, but it clung to her like a second skin.
You're not a burden. You never were.
Regina's words from that morning replayed in her head, soft and insistent, like the whisper of a song she couldn't quite remember the melody to. Emma wanted to believe them—wanted to let herself lean into that fragile hope—but the voice in the back of her mind wouldn't let her. It reminded her of all the times she'd tried to trust someone, only to end up alone again. It reminded her of the hollow ache in her stomach, the way starving had always felt like the one thing she could control.
With a heavy sigh, Emma swung her legs onto the bed, pulling the blanket over her. The warmth should've been comforting, but it only made her feel smaller, more fragile. Her body ached, the dull, gnawing pain in her stomach radiating outward until it was all she could focus on.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But the darkness behind her eyelids was restless, filled with flickers of memories she didn't want to revisit—foster homes, cold meals, nights spent huddled in corners, trying to disappear. Her breathing hitched, and she shifted onto her side, curling in on herself.
A shiver ran through her despite the blanket. She clenched her jaw, willing her body to stop shaking, but it wouldn't listen. She felt... off. Wrong, somehow. Like a thread had been pulled too tight and was moments away from snapping.
Her chest tightened, and for a fleeting second, she thought about calling out to Regina. But the thought was gone as quickly as it came, swallowed by the stubborn voice in her head that told her to deal with it alone. She always had. She always would.
Emma's breathing slowed as exhaustion finally began to pull her under. Her last thought, as the darkness crept in, was that maybe—just maybe—tomorrow would feel a little easier.