CHAPTER forty-nine #11
"Oh, babe..." The word barely leaves me before I'm crossing the room and dropping to my knees in front of him.
He doesn't hesitate. Not for a single second.
The frame slips from his hands onto the mattress as he reaches for me—pulling me into him, into his chest, into the shaking of his breath.
His arms wrap around me so tightly I can feel every tremor running through him.
His face buries into my neck, hot tears soaking straight through the old hoodie I stole from him years ago.
"I miss him..." His voice cracks, shattered. "God, babe—I miss him. I miss him so much."
My own eyes burn instantly. I hold him just as tight, arms circling his shoulders, one hand sliding up to the back of his head.
"I know," I whisper, pressing my cheek against his hair. "I know, Zach. I'm here. I'm right here."
He breaks.
It's the quiet kind of breaking—the kind that rips through someone who's spent an entire day holding everything together for everyone else. His body curls into me, shaking with every breath he tries and fails to steady.
"I tried," he chokes out. "I tried to be fine for my mom today. I tried to keep it together but—" His voice fractures again. "It just hurts so damn much."
My heart twists. "You don't have to be fine with me," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair, gentle, slow. "Not today. Not ever. Just let it out, Zach. I've got you."
He clings harder—fist tightening in the fabric of my hoodie like he's scared I might disappear if he loosens his grip even a little.
So I hold him.
Tighter.
Closer.
Matching him breath for breath, tremble for tremble.
He cries into my neck, soaking my skin, my clothes, my heart—letting out everything he locked away all day. Everything he didn't let his mom or his sister see. Everything he never lets the world see.
No one gets this part of him.
No one ever has.
Except me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper into his hair, over and over like a prayer. "Cry as much as you need. I'm here. I promise, I'm here."
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Maybe less. Time goes soft around us, fading into the background as he presses closer, letting grief pour out in ragged, quiet waves.
And as I hold him, something inside me aches—because all I can think is:
How did he survive the last three years without someone to do this?
Who held him together when I wasn't here?
Who steadied him on this day?
Who reminded him he didn't have to carry this alone?
No one.
And the thought breaks me in a whole different way.
So I pull him even closer, arms wrapped around him like I can shield him from every memory, every hurt, every jagged piece of today.
"I've got you," I whisper again, softer this time. "You're not alone."
And slowly—slowly—his shaking eases, his breathing steadies, his grip loosens just enough for him to shift and rest his forehead against mine.
But he keeps holding me.
And I don't let go.
We're now sitting side-by-side on the floor, backs against his bed. He doesn't let go of my hand—not even for a second.
He threads our fingers tighter, then lays his other hand over ours and rubs his thumb slowly across my knuckles. It's absentminded, soft, like he's grounding himself with every pass of his thumb.
He tilts his head to look at me. I turn mine too.
His smile is small and broken at the edges, but grateful in a way that makes my chest pulse painfully.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"For being here today. For... staying. For giving me enough strength to get through it." His voice breaks a little. "You're the reason I kept it together for my mom and my sister. The reason I didn't fall apart."
"That's not true. You've always been strong—especially when it comes to your family."
"No. That's not true at all." He looks at me like he's letting me see something he's buried for years.
"It was only ever easy to be strong because—you were always right beside me.
Your presence... I don't know." He glances down, swallowing hard.
"It was like you made the world bearable.
Like I could breathe. Like nothing was too big or too scary because I knew you were there. "
His eyes cloud, pain flickering there like something old and heavy rising from the bottom of him.
"And when you left..." His voice drops—hoarse, shaky. "God, babe. I had such a hard time surviving the last three anniversaries. I barely made it through them."
My heart stutters, a crack forming right down the middle.
"Especially after what happened to Sam," he murmurs.
"What do you mean?"
He doesn't answer right away.
He leans his head back against the mattress, eyes squeezing shut as if he's fighting fresh tears. His Adam's apple bobs hard.
"Zach?"
He sits up straighter, inhaling deeply—in the kind of way someone does when they're about to open a wound that never fully healed.
"Three years ago, just few months after you left," he finally says, voice cracking, "S-Sam had a... relapse."
My breath catches.
"Remember when we were little," he continues, staring at our joined hands. "Sam was always sick. Always in and out of the hospital. Always missing school?" He gives a hollow smile. "My parents told us it was just allergies, weak immunity, kid stuff. And we believed them."
I nod slowly, barely breathing.
"But the truth was..." His grip on my hand tightens—tight enough to hurt. "Sam was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia when she was only eight."
I suck in a sharp gasp, my hand flying to my mouth.
No.
No, no, no.
Sam? Our Sam? Cancer? At eight?
My chest twists painfully.
Zach drags a shaky hand over his face. "I had no idea," he murmurs, voice breaking. "Not a clue. My little sister... my angel... she'd already fought cancer once as a kid, and I didn't even know. They hid it from me. All of it."
His jaw tightens—anger, hurt, betrayal all tangled together.
"I only found out after my first college game," he says, swallowing hard.
"Sam and Mom drove all the way to Miami to watch me play.
Everyone was hyped for that night—coaches, scouts.
.. everyone wanted to see how I'd perform my first time on NCAA ice.
And honestly?" He lets out a tired, hollow laugh.
"I killed it. Best game I'd played in months. "
Then his face falls.
"And then my mom called." The words come out thin, like he's reliving it. "They never even made it inside the arena. Sam collapsed in the parking lot."
My breath catches. His fingers tighten around mine.
"I rushed to the hospital the moment Mom called," he continues, "They ran everything—tests, scans, bloodwork... More tests. And then—after what felt like forever—the doctors told us."
He swallows hard, chest rising unevenly.
"It was cancer," he says, voice cracking. "Again. Her AML had come back."
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
"I didn't think anything could hurt worse than losing Dad," he whispers, eyes shining. "But seeing Sam like that—weak, pale, hooked up to machines... fighting for her life again? That... that was a different kind of pain. Something I didn't know was possible."
His voice drops to a trembling whisper.
"She was sixteen," he gets out, tears spilling freely. "Sixteen, and battling the same goddamn cancer that took our Dad."
A tear slips down his cheek before he can wipe it away. He doesn't bother hiding the others that follow.
"Mom completely fell apart," he croaks. "And I was just..
. eighteen. A freshman. Suddenly juggling classes, hockey, practices, games.
.. and trying to be strong for both of them.
I couldn't focus. I couldn't think. I'd show up to practice, to games.
.. but I wasn't really there. It felt like I was drowning every single day and nobody noticed.
I was scared. I was angry. I was overwhelmed and alone. "
His breathing stutters.
"It was the darkest time of my life," he whispers. "Watching Sam get weaker every day, not knowing if I'd lose her too. Watching Mom break. Trying to hold both of them together when I was barely holding myself upright."
He gives a small, empty laugh. "I didn't sleep. I barely ate. I couldn't keep up with school. Couldn't keep up with hockey. It felt like I was suffocating."
I don't speak.
But inside, something in me is tearing open.
Piece by piece.
Word by word.
He takes a shaky breath.
"One day, it just... got too heavy. Too much. So I left."
My eyes widen. "Left?"
"Left Florida," he says hoarsely. "Got on a plane. Went to New York. To NYU."
My chest caves in on itself.
"I needed you," he whispers. "I needed the one person who always made the world feel less impossible. Survivable..."
Oh God...
"I stayed for a week. Kept showing up at the main gates." He gives a broken little laugh. "NYU's massive, so maybe it was stupid, but... I kept hoping. Hoping you'd walk by. Just once."
My throat burns.
"But you never did," he says softly. "And when I tried calling... it never went through. Still blocked."
A small gasp escapes me.
Sam's voice from months ago hits me like a freight train.
She told me Zach was almost kicked off the team freshman year. That he was missing practices. Playing terribly. That he disappeared to New York without telling anyone—and she always believed it was because of me.
And God... she was right about part of it.
He did go to New York for me.
But the real reason he was falling apart wasn't me.
It was this.
All of this.
A brutal illness stealing his family's peace.
The same sickness that had already taken their father.
And the fear that his little sister—his angel—would be next.
Who wouldn't break under that?
"Zach..." I whisper, voice cracking.
My heart squeezes so violently it feels like someone's got a fist wrapped around it, twisting.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out—not a sound, not a breath—just this awful, heavy guilt pressing down on my ribs.
I try again, swallowing hard. "Why didn't you... why didn't you call my parents? Ask where I was? Where I lived?"