Chapter 23 Caleb
TWENTY-THREE
CALEB
Miguel’s text is the first thing I see when I wake up. Everything else comes second to the glow of my phone on the pillow next to me, buzzing once before going still.
My eyes feel like sandpaper and my body feels like I was hit by a truck and then backed over again for good measure. The weighted blanket is heavy on my chest, Miguel’s hoodie bunched under my chin, and my mouth dry as hell.
I blink the screen into focus.
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?
“Little extra help” is a loaded phrase when you have a brain like mine. My first thought is, he’s done and calling it quits. My second is, of course, he’s looking into help. You’re exhausting.
I stare at the messages until the words blur.
Too much.
Too needy.
Too broken.
He’s realizing it. Finally realizing what you keep saying is true—that you’re a project, not a person. I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale.
One, two, three, four.
Exhale.
Five, six, seven, eight.
What the fuck do I do with nine and ten?
The safety plan Dr. Kaur made me write sits folded in my wallet. I don’t need to pull it out to hear her voice.
“Thoughts are thoughts, Caleb. Not facts. Not orders.”
I text back before I can overthink it anymore.
Caleb
Morning. Sorry I crashed so hard last night.
You’re allowed to get help, you know. I won’t be mad.
The three dots pop up pretty fast.
Miguel
I know I’m allowed, pretty boy. I just don’t want you waking up and thinking I’m… tapping out or some stupid shit.
I’m not going anywhere. I’ve just realized I can’t keep trying to white-knuckle this alone.
Can we talk after your practice? I’ll pick you up.
Something in my chest loosens.
He’s not saying that I’m too much.
He’s saying that he wants help so he can stay.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My heart’s still doing that jittery thing, but there’s a little heat now that wasn’t there a minute ago.
Caleb
Yeah. After practice is good.
I’m free after 5.
Miguel
I’ll be outside the gym. Black hoodie, backwards hat, with the usual “don’t talk to me, I have a boyfriend” look on my face.
Don’t forget to drink water and eat. I mean it, baby.
I can’t help it—I smile.
Caleb
Bossy.
Miguel
You love me.
He doesn’t put a question mark on it. I don’t put one on my answer.
Caleb
Yeah. I do.
My heart feels too big for my chest and somehow too small for everything that’s trying to fit inside it. I drag myself out from under the weighted blanket. The room tilts for a second, then settles. Headache, mild. Anxiety, medium. Hope, confusingly present.
It’s a complicated mix for eight-thirty on a Monday.
By noon, I’ve sat through one lecture I barely remember and picked at a burrito bowl in the cafeteria like it’s an exam I’m failing.
Food goes in and my body registers it but doesn’t exactly celebrate.
Still counts.
I text Miguel a picture of the half-eaten bowl anyway.
Caleb
Evidence that I ate.
Miguel
That’s my boy. Again later. No starving your brain before practice. Don’t make me come and feed you.
My brain feels starved anyway.
I spend the afternoon in the library, pretending to read an article for psych while my mind keeps circling the same drain.
Miguel. Extra help. Better for you. Part of me wants to be grateful.
And the other part wants to panic and call the whole thing off.
If he needs help because of me, isn’t that proof that I’m…
hazardous? That being with me hurts him?
I catch myself twisting the hem of my sleeve until the fabric distorts. I force my hands flat on the desk and take another slow breath.
You’re doing better, I remind myself. You went to Reno. You played. Team bonding.
You’re here.
That has to count for something.
Practice that afternoon feels off from the start. My legs are sluggish and my head feels like it’s full of static. I miss an easy layup in warm-ups and hear Coach swear under his breath.
“Shake it off, Burton,” he calls. “You’re not in Reno anymore.”
Locking in, my focus narrows to that space where it’s just me, the ball, and the rim.
For a few drills, it works.
Then we scrimmage.
Halfway through, I lose my man on a backdoor cut. The ball goes over my head before I can react. Easy layup. Coach blows the whistle so hard I flinch.
“Burton!” he snaps. “You asleep out here? What the hell was that?”
Heat flashes up my neck.
“Sorry, Coach,” I say, chest heaving. “I spaced.”
“Don’t.” He glares. “Not when it counts.”
My own brain chimes in: You’re gonna blow this. You’re wasting everyone’s time.
I grind through the rest of practice powered by muscle memory and shame. By the time Coach finally blows the last whistle, my shirt is soaked and my lungs are burning.
“Film review tomorrow,” he says, voice echoing in the gym. “Get your heads on straight. Especially you, Burton. You’re better than that.”
I nod, swallowing the rock in my throat.
In the locker room, the guys talk trash and rehash plays, but it washes over me like elevator music. I shower fast, pull on joggers and Miguel’s hoodie again, and shove my stuff into my bag with shaking hands.
My phone buzzes.
Miguel
Outside.
My heart does that annoying stutter thing.
I zip the bag and go.
He’s parked in the usual spot, leaning against the truck in the fading light. Backwards hat, black hoodie, work boots. Arms crossed. He looks the complete opposite of whatever the fuck I am right now.
The second he sees me, his face softens.
“Hey, baby,” he says. “How was practice?”
I make a face. “I didn’t have to run sprints, so not complete shit.”
He arches a brow. I know that look.
Translation: Try again, baby.
I sigh. “My head was… not great. I messed up a few times. Coach yelled. End of story.”
Miguel pushes off the truck and steps closer, hand brushing the side of my neck, thumb grazing my jaw.
Please kiss me.
Make it all go away.
“Okay,” he says simply. “We’ll circle back to that. Get in.”
I slide into the passenger seat. The cab smells like cedar. His cologne. He starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. We don’t head toward the condo, no, we head toward the cliffs.
My stomach tightens.
Of course.
If we’re having a “talk,” he’s going to take me to the place he always drags me when my brain is on fire. Where the ocean is big enough to make everything else feel smaller. I stare out the window as campus falls away, replaced by houses, then trees, then the winding road I know by feel.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a minute.
“So are you,” I counter.
He huffs a tiny laugh. “Touché.”
The truck climbs the last hill. He parks in the little dirt turnout overlooking the ocean. The horizon is a smear of pink and gold fading into blue. Waves slam themselves against the rocks below like they’re trying to claw their way up.
He kills the engine but leaves the windows cracked so we can hear the water.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then Miguel exhales, long and slow.
“Okay,” he says. “Before your brain runs twelve marathons around what I texted you this morning, can I just say the thing?”
Oh, we are way past that. My fingers twist in the hem of the hoodie. “Depends on what the thing is.”
He side-eyes me. “You know what the thing is.”
I stare at my knees. “Say it anyway.”
“All right.” He shifts in his seat so he’s half-turned toward me, one arm draped over the backrest. “I called the counseling center.”
My chest stutters.
“For me,” he adds. “Not to go digging into your shit. I told them I’m your partner and I want to support you without…
wrecking myself in the process. Asked what that would even look like.
They said I can have my own sessions. Maybe talk with Dr. Kaur at some point if you’re okay with it, but mostly… just someone for me.”
“Sorry,” I blurt. “I’m so fucking sorry, I—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle but sharp. “No. We’re not doing that.”
I swallow hard. “If you need therapy because of me—”
“It’s not because of you,” he says. “It’s because I love you. There’s a difference.”
I stare at him, breathing shallow. He keeps going, eyes on the windshield, like he’s afraid if he looks at me, I’ll bolt.
“I realized something yesterday,” he says, eyes shifting to the ocean before us.
“When your phone died, I drove to campus like my hair was on fire. When I stood in that doorway and saw you drooling on my hoodie under that weighted blanket, I almost cried from relief.” He huffs a humorless laugh.
“I’m living at DEFCON 1 all the time with you.
Every silence is a threat. Every missed text is a national emergency.
That’s… not sustainable, baby. For either of us. ”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know you didn’t.” He finally looks at me, eyes soft but steady. “You’re not doing anything wrong. Your brain is your brain. You’ve been through shit I can’t even fully wrap my head around. You using me as support is not wrong. I want that. I want to be the first person you text when it’s bad.”
He takes a breath.
“I just need to stop acting like I’m the only thing standing between you and the darkness, because that’s not true.
You have your therapist. You have Mom. Maybe Dad…
but the jury’s still out on him. You have your own strength.
I keep forgetting that and putting the whole world on my own shoulders, and then I get mad at gravity. ”
A tiny, unwilling laugh escapes me.
“Gravity is a bitch,” I say.
“Exactly.” His mouth twitches. “So, I’m calling in some reinforcements.
That’s all this is. Not an indictment of you.
Not a prelude to a breakup because fuck that.
This is just me saying, ‘Hey, if I want to keep loving you the way you deserve for a long-ass time, preferably forever, maybe I should get some tools so I don’t crash and burn. ’”
I let his words sink in, slow and sticky.
Support for him.