16. Snacks and Panic Attacks #3
My heart drops. I rarely speak of Daria, certainly never casually. But something stirs inside me—a quiet nudge, almost like God whispering, open up to her. Maybe I can’t expect Eleanor to share if I never do.
“Yeah,” I answer simply. “I had an older sister.”
“Had?” Eleanor asks.
“She—” I pause, biting my lip. “She passed when I was thirteen.”
“How?” Eleanor asks, her hands shooting to her mouth, a faint blush rising. “Oh… gosh, sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”
I want to smile at how flustered she is. “It’s okay. After my mom first got cancer, Daria struggled. None of us really knew… I was too young, my parents worked long hours. Her mental health got the best of her, and she took her life.”
Eleanor’s hand moves to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Nik,” she mutters softly.
“It’s okay,” I say with a brittle smile. “It was a long time ago.”
Her lips quiver. “What—never mind ”
“Never mind?” I probe gently. “You can ask,” I reassure her, keeping my voice soft.
“You said your mom had cancer the first time… did she have it again?” Curiosity laces her words.
I inhale, the memory still raw. “She’s in recurrence,” I rasp out.
Eleanor’s blush deepens. “Wait—you mean she currently has cancer?”
I nod, gripping the gear shift a little tighter than necessary.
Her hand gently covers mine. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I know sorry isn’t enough…”
I hold her hand briefly, giving it a quick squeeze before placing it back on the wheel. Holding it longer is a special kind of torture, knowing it isn’t mine to keep.
I inhale slowly, feeling the tension evaporate from my shoulders.
“It’s alright,” I drawl. “I’ve learned that there’s a kind of peace in trusting God through things we don’t understand.
I can’t fix everything, and I can’t take away all the pain, but I know He’s working. Even in the darkest moments.”
Eleanor tilts her head slightly, studying me. “You… really believe that?”
I nod, my gaze softening. “Completely. Faith doesn’t make life easy. It just makes it possible to walk through the hard parts without losing yourself.”
Her eyes linger on mine, curiosity flickering across her face. Eleanor chews on her lip, trying to reconcile the calm in my voice with the chaos of everything I just told her.
“That’s why I keep going,” I add quietly. “For my mom, for Daria… and for anyone else I can try to be there for. Even if I can’t change what’s happened, I can choose how I respond.”
Eleanor stays quiet, but I can feel her attention on me, the faintest spark of curiosity in her gaze. It’s a small thing, but enough to make me hope that maybe, just maybe, she wants to know more. Not just about Daria or my mom, but about how I found peace in the storm.
After a moment of silence, she finally asks, her voice soft and tentative, “Do you… pray a lot?”
I glance at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Every day. Sometimes it’s just a quick prayer in the morning—like the one before class, or a silent one while I’m walking between rehearsals. Other times, it’s longer. Pouring out everything that’s on my heart. It keeps me grounded.”
She pauses, nodding almost imperceptibly as the implications sink in. “I don’t think I’ve ever… really prayed like that,” she admits, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.
“Most people don’t,” I say gently, keeping my eyes on the road. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. It’s not about the words, it’s about being honest. About giving your fears, your worries, everything you can’t control, to Someone who can.”
Eleanor’s eyes drift down, thoughtful. I feel the curiosity simmering just beneath the surface, like she wants to ask more but doesn’t know where to start. “I… never thought about it like that,” she murmurs.
“That’s okay,” I murmur. “You don’t have to. Just know it’s there if you ever need it. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that gets me through the day.”
A small, contemplative silence settles between us, the kind that doesn’t need words. I can feel her watching me from the corner of my eye, and for the first time, I sense a tiny crack in her walls. A crack that maybe, in time, God can use.
When we pull up to her apartment, I don’t want her to go. There’s an unusual sense of longing when it comes to Eleanor. I laid myself bare before her tonight, and I can only pray that it’s enough to get her to open up to me.
“Thank you for the ride,” she says, starting to slip out of the car.
“No problem,” I reply, then add, “Sleep well. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
She grips her bag on her shoulder. “I know.” Her voice wavers slightly. “Sorry for being so… off today. I’ll do better tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “Just take care of yourself,” I say with conviction.
She only nods then closes the door, heading toward her apartment.
I sit there for a few moments, replaying our conversation in my head. She asked about my faith—that was good. And I’d opened up about Daria and Mama without choking or stumbling. Maybe—just maybe—God’s weaving something bigger into whatever’s happening between me and Eleanor.