Chapter 22 Miguel #2
He sees it land, his face falling. “Shit. I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re not wrong,” I say, forcing a breath out. “That’s on me. That’s my shit. I just… when your phone went straight to voicemail, and the game was out of state, and you told me you’d text, and then you didn’t…”
My voice breaks. I hate it.
“I went to some bad places in my head,” I finish.
His fingers tighten on my wrist. “I’m okay,” he says quietly. “I promise. I drank water. I ate. I’m… good. Tired, but good.”
I look at him, really look. There are shadows under his eyes and a hangover ghosting around the edges, but he’s grounded. Just my boy, guilty and soft in my hoodie.
“I know that,” I say. “Now.”
“Come here,” he says, scooting back and patting the mattress. “Just for a minute.”
“I should let you sleep,” I protest weakly.
He just raises an eyebrow.
I sigh and sit on the edge of the bed. He leans forward, wraps both arms around my middle, and rests his forehead against my chest. The hug surprises me, Caleb usually makes me work for these.
“Thank you for caring enough to freak out,” he mumbles into my shirt. “Even if my dumb ass caused it.”
My hand finds the back of his head automatically, fingers tracing damp curls. “Always gonna care,” I say quietly. “Can’t promise I won’t freak out less. Might just try to freak out… quieter next time.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Mm. We can work on that in your therapy session.”
“Very funny.”
Pulling back, blinking blearily up at me. “Would you stay if I asked you to?” he asks. “Just for a little. Till I fall back asleep.”
Like I’m ever going to say no to that.
“Yeah,” I say. “Scoot over.”
He does, dragging the weighted blanket with him. I lie down on top of the covers, fully dressed, and he curls into my side, head on my shoulder, arm draped across my stomach. Within three minutes, he’s out again, breathing evenly, body relaxing.
I stare at the ceiling in the semi-dark, listening to him breathe, my own nervous system trying to recalibrate.
He scared me.
Not on purpose.
Not with anything dramatic.
Just with silence.
If this is where we’re at now—me making fifteen-minute drives because of a dead phone battery—what happens when things really go sideways?
Because they will.
Life isn’t done throwing shit at him.
At us.
My arm tightens around him. I’m not going anywhere but I can feel the weight now.
Mamá’s kitchen always reminds me of better days, when Caleb and I would come running in from playing outside all day and find comfort in a bowl of arroz con leche or a slice of flan.
I decided to stop by on my way back from campus because I need to be around someone who remembers when I was the one falling apart.
She’s at the stove when I walk in the back door, stirring a pot of something red and bubbling. Music plays low from the little speaker on the counter, an old ballad she loves, all aching vocals and slow guitar.
“Mijo,” she says without turning, like she sensed me. “You’re just in time. Taste this.” She lifts a spoon and holds it back toward me without looking.
I grin despite myself, lean in, and blow before slurping. Rich, spicy, perfect. “Needs more salt,” I tease.
“Don’t be stupid,” she says, swatting my arm with the spoon. Then she turns, really seeing me, and her expression shifts. “What’s wrong?”
Of course she sees it.
“It’s nothing,” I start.
She just raises an eyebrow. “No me mientas.”
Feeling deflated, I answer. “Okay, not nothing.”
She gestures to the table. “Sit. Talk. I can stir and listen at the same time, you know.”
I drop into a chair, elbows on my knees, hands hanging uselessly between them. I just listen to the simmer, the scrape of wood on pot, and the distant TV in the living room, where some telenovela is yelling in the background.
“Caleb was supposed to text me when he got back from Reno,” I say finally. “His phone died. He didn’t. I… drove to campus to check on him.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes sharpening. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” I say quickly. “He came back, crashed under the weighted blanket, and the phone finally turned on and started screaming with notifications.
Her shoulders relax. “Ay, gracias a Dios,” she murmurs. Then, gently, “And you?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Still feeling ridiculous apparently.”
She turns off the burner and comes to sit across from me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Tell me.”
Picking at a crack in the table’s varnish, I sigh. “I went straight to the worst possible scenario. Because I know the kind of shit that crawls around in his brain when he’s quiet too long.”
My jaw tightens. “It felt like if something had happened and I hadn’t gone, I’d never—” I swallow. “I’d never forgive myself.”
“And now?” she asks quietly.
“Now I’m wondering if I’m… too much.” The words taste bitter. “If I’m making him feel like he has to check in or I’ll show up with a search party. If I’m acting like… like I’m the only thing between him and the worst.”
“You’re not the only thing,” she says, eyes steady on mine. “But you are something big for him. You know that.”
“That’s the problem,” I say, voice low. “He leans on me so hard I’m starting to lean wrong, too.
Every silence is a cliff. Every missed call is…
” I shake my head. “I’d bleed for him, Mama.
Gladly. You know that. But I’m starting to worry that if I keep bleeding like this, one day I’ll look down and realize there’s nothing left. ”
Her face softens with a pain I recognize, the pain of watching someone you love hurt and being able to fix only pieces.
“I’m not saying he’s doing anything wrong,” I add quickly. “This is trauma. This is his brain trying not to drown, and I want to be the one he calls. I want to be his first number. I just… don’t know how to be that without burning myself out to keep him warm.”
My mom reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. Her palm is small and warm, the same hand that bandaged my scraped knees and smacked the back of my head when I got smart-mouthed.
“Mijo,” she says quietly. “You cannot hold him together alone.”
“I know,” I say.
“You say you know,” she replies, “but your actions say you don’t believe it.
You rush to campus when his phone dies. You take days off work without telling anyone why.
You sleep on half of a twin bed to make sure he doesn’t disappear in the night.
” Her eyes shine. “I love that you love him like this. I am so proud of the man you are. But you’re not a full-time caregiver.
You’re his step—” She pauses and sighs, “His partner. His… husband in all but paperwork. You can’t be his only support. ”
The word "husband" hits me sideways, but I let it pass.
“What, you want me to stop answering when he calls?” I snap, then immediately regret the edge in my tone. “Sorry. That was—”
She squeezes my hand. “No. I want you to have someone to call, too. I want you to talk to someone who can help you carry this in a way that doesn’t break you. Dr. Kaur, maybe. Or someone else. I want you to have your own support. Your own plan.”
I stare at her. “You think I should… see his therapist?”
“You could ask,” she says. “Maybe not as her patient. Maybe as… a partner who wants to support someone in crisis. She can’t tell you his secrets, but she can give you tools. And if not her, then maybe she can direct you to someone for you. You’re living in his war zone without armor.”
The thought of sitting in a room like that, like the one he described, talking about the way fear coils in my gut when I see his name on my phone… Makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Also makes an ugly kind of sense.
“I don’t want him to feel betrayed,” I say. “Like I went behind his back.”
“So don’t go behind his back,” she says simply. “Tell him, ‘I love you and I want to support you without drowning, so I’m going to get help learning how to do that.’ You think he’d be angry at that?”
I picture his face when I showed up at his dorm.
The way he said, “You’re gonna burn yourself out on me.”
Maybe he’s been waiting for me to realize it.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe. Maybe not. But… I can’t keep doing this like it’s just me and him against the world when the world is bigger than both of us.”
She smiles and nods. “Good. Then call. Asking never hurt anybody, find out what help looks like for you.”
I stare at our hands, her thumb rubbing circles on my knuckles like she used to do when I couldn’t sleep as a kid. The lump in my throat feels too big to swallow.
“If I lost him…” I start, then stop, because the words are too heavy.
She hears them anyway.
“I know,” she says softly. “That’s why you need more people holding the net.”
“Ma, what about Dad?”
Patting my hand, she gives me one of her signature looks. “You let me worry about him. And when you’re ready… when both of you are ready… we can tackle that.”
Later, back at the condo, I stand in the middle of the living room with my phone in my hand and a knot forming in my stomach.
The number is already in my contacts. Dr. Kaur. Caleb took a picture of her business card once and sent it to me “just in case you ever need to yell at her on my behalf.”
Looks like I might need something different.
I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
“Campus Counseling Center, this is Dana,” a bright voice answers.
“Uh. Hi.” I clear my throat. “My name is Miguel Veracruz. My… My partner is one of Dr. Kaur’s patients. Caleb Burton.”
There’s a pause. Keys clack softly in the background. “I can’t confirm or deny patient lists,” she says, all professional. “But how can I help you?”
“Right, yeah, I know,” I say quickly. “I’m not asking for…
for his stuff. I just…” I exhale. “I’m trying to support someone who’s going through a lot.
And I think I’m in over my head. I was wondering if there’s…
I don’t know… a way to talk to someone about how not to screw this up.
How to be there without… breaking myself in the process. ”
Another pause. This one is softer.
“We do offer individual sessions for partners and family members,” she says.
“And Dr. Kaur sometimes does joint sessions if the student requests it. I can’t schedule anything without his consent in that case, but we can absolutely set you up with your own appointment to talk about support strategies. Would you like that?”
My throat burns.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “Yeah, I think I would.”
She takes my information, offers a couple of times next week, and I pick one that doesn’t require me to blow up my whole work schedule.
When I hang up, the condo is quiet.
Too quiet.
I drop onto the couch and stare at the ceiling for a long time.
This isn’t the big drama. We haven’t come out to his dad. There’s no ambulance.
Just me, finally admitting to myself that I can’t be everything he needs.
I pull my phone up again and open our conversation.
Miguel
Hey, when you wake up tomorrow, I wanna talk to you about something.
Nothing bad. Just… me looking into getting a little extra help so I can be better for you.
Okay?
I watch the message sit there, unread.
For once, I don’t spiral.
I just breathe.
One inhale, one exhale, remembering the sound of his voice, his smile in my hoodie, and the way the darkness didn’t feel like a threat. If I’m going to keep loving him through all of this, I need to stop pretending I can do it on willpower alone.
For him.
For me.