Chapter 17 Caleb #2
I could tell him about the card in my wallet and the way my therapist looked at me like I was balancing on the edge of something.
Instead I give him the version that hurts less when I say it out loud.
“It was… a lot,” I say. “But… good, I guess. I told her some things.”
Miguel’s eyes search mine. “You feeling even a tiny bit lighter?”
“Maybe an ounce.” I shrug. “The rest is still… there.”
He nods, like he expected that answer. “That’s okay. I’ll take the ounce. The rest we can work on together.”
My throat tightens.
“Come eat,” he says. “Before I start force-feeding you like a duck for foie gras.”
“That’s a terrible analogy.” Setting my bag on the floor and making my way to the little table that we almost never eat at.
“It got you to the table, didn’t it?” He smirks.
We sit at that tiny dining table with chipped corners with steam curling up from our bowls and I watch as he tears tortillas into quarters, tossing a few into my bowl, the way his mom does. Cilantro, a squeeze of lime, and the ritual of it all working like a spell to settle my nerves.
“Try it,” he says.
I do. The broth is hot and salty, packed with flavor. Chicken, carrots, and rice. It hits my empty stomach like a blessing.
“Good?”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised at how much I mean it. “Really good.”
We eat in comfortable silence, the clink of spoons and the hum of the music filling the space where anxiety usually lives. Every so often, I catch him watching me, making sure I’m actually eating and not just stirring.
I finish the whole bowl, and he looks unreasonably proud of it.
That hurts a little, because that means too many times I’ve made him worry that I don’t eat.
Afterward, we migrate to the couch and he tosses me his favorite hoodie—soft, oversized, smelling like him—and I pull it on without thinking. We curl under the big fuzzy blanket, my legs thrown over his lap, his hand resting on my shin.
“What do you want to watch?” he asks, remote in hand. “Horror? Comedy? Trash reality, where everyone makes worse decisions than we do?”
“Something stupid,” I say. “Something where nothing bad happens and nobody dies.”
Projecting much?
Miguel hums as he scrolls through all the reality shows. “So… definitely not what’s in our Netflix algorithm.”
We settle on some ridiculous baking show where everything is bright and pastel and the worst thing that happens is someone’s cake collapses. Miguel makes fun of the contestants’ techniques under his breath, and I laugh at the right moments and snark back when I can.
On the outside, it probably looks perfect.
I’m warm. I’m held. I’m fed.
On the inside, I feel hollow.
The session with Dr. Kaur keeps replaying in my head. Her questions. My answers. The way I admitted that sometimes I think everyone would be better off without me.
I look at Miguel, at the way his thumb rubs absent circles on my ankle, so unconsciously tender it hurts.
How could he ever be better off without this?
And yet the thought slinks in anyway.
He took the day off from work. He’s cooking, cleaning, and planning around my storms. Sitting up with me when I can’t sleep. Nothing steadies me better than the way he shields me from ghosts that aren’t even there.
Miguel deserves someone who doesn’t break this easily. My dad says Miguel drags me down. The reality feels backwards.
His attention drifts from the TV to me. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
I force a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby,” he says lightly. “Want me to make it stop?”
“Can you?” I ask, half joking, half serious.
“Come here,” he says, then pulls me closer, guiding me until I’m stretched over his chest instead of across his lap. My ear presses against his heartbeat, steady and solid.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, like last night. “In… and out.”
I do.
My body calms. My brain does not.
What if this is all I am? A weight he keeps shouldering. A job he never signed up for but refuses to quit.
He kisses the top of my head. “You’re doing good, pretty boy,” he whispers. “I’m proud of you.”
My eyes sting. I swallow hard.
“Why?” I mumble into his shirt.
“Because you’re still here,” he says simply. “Because you went to therapy. Because you ate. Because you texted me instead of disappearing into your head. That’s enough.”
Is it?
It doesn’t feel like enough.
Miguel starts to drift off first, body relaxing under me, breaths lengthening. At some point, he reaches over me to turn the TV off, plunging the room into darkness.
“Stay,” he mumbles, half asleep. “Don’t go back tonight. Just stay.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
I knew the moment I walked in the door tonight I wasn’t going back to the dorms.
We shuffle to the bedroom, moving like we’ve done this a thousand times because we have.
I brush my teeth with one of the spare toothbrushes he keeps here for me.
He strips down to boxers and a worn t-shirt, I keep the hoodie on, pulling the sleeves over my hands.
Crawling into bed, he pulls me against him immediately—chest to my back, arm heavy around my waist, leg thrown over mine.
Caged and safe all at once.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Go to sleep, Miggy.”
“Love you,” he breathes.
The words settle over my skin like a weight.
“I love you too,” I whisper, because it’s true. Maybe the truest thing I’ve ever said.
His breathing evens out. His grip on me stays firm even in sleep.
I stare into the dark, eyes wide open.
What if I burn everything I touch?
What if one day he looks at me and finally sees what my dad sees, a broken, exhausting project that keeps slipping backward?
Wouldn’t it be easier for him if I just… stopped needing so much? Stopped taking up space?
Maybe everyone would be better off if I disappeared.
I feel his heartbeat against my spine and his breath warm on the back of my neck.
I think of the promise I made, of the card in my wallet, of his voice saying, You’re okay, Caleb. I’ve got you.
I don’t move or speak.
I just lie there, with my eyes open, held tight in his arms while the worst parts of my brain whisper lies that feel so much like truth.
I hope loving him will be enough to keep me here.