Chapter 9 Gabe #2
I pick at my food, then sigh. “I dunno, I notice the way he moves around here. He closes doors softly, sets things down gently. Even his footsteps are quiet.”
“And?” Abbie prompts.
“And… I appreciate it,” I admit. “But I hate that he feels like he has to. Like I’m something fragile he has to work around.”
Abbie’s eyes soften. She reaches across slowly and squeezes my hand. “Maybe he’s not doing it because he thinks you’re fragile. Maybe he’s doing it because he cares enough to notice what makes you comfortable.”
Ciarán agrees, surprisingly serious. “He’s adapting because he wants to. Not because you’re a burden.”
I swallow hard and look down at my lap. The word burden is one I’ve carried too long. A burden on Kyle, on my brother, on my friends. Always needing someone to look out for me. Hearing them dismiss it so simply is difficult; I am a burden.
We eat in companionable quiet for a while, the clink of forks filling the space. Then, as always, Ciarán strikes.
“Boozy brunch this weekend?” He asks it casually, but I hear the caution in his tone.
I freeze.
Abbie perks up. “Yes! Lou and Bria already have the bar cart stocked. You should come, Gabe. It’s been forever since you joined us.”
“Brunch?” My throat tightens around the word. The room feels smaller, louder. I rub my palms over my jeans.
“Don’t act like you don’t remember,” Ciarán says, grinning softly. “Drinks, pancakes, gossip so spicy it belongs on an episode of Hot Ones. You used to love coming.”
Yeah, I used to.
“I dunno… it’s been so long.”
I loved a lot of things before. Brunch, sure.
But also crammed book events where you could barely hear yourself over the buzz, dancing until my legs ached, laughing with Ciarán and Abbie until my stomach hurt.
I used to thrive on those things—noise, crowds, light, being in the middle of it all.
I was always shy, but I wanted to be part of everything.
Now the thought of it makes my chest lock up. I still ache for it, deep down, but wanting and being able to do it feel like two completely different things.
Abbie’s voice is gentle. “Not that long.”
But it feels like another life. I loved all those things before Kyle, even when things got bad, I still forced myself out the door, even when he glared, even when his sulks hung over us like a storm brewing.
I still sat with them, still laughed sometimes.
It was one of the few things I didn’t give up completely.
And then afterward—after I finally left—I thought I’d step into freedom, into something bigger.
But I retreated further. Smaller and smaller, until my world shrank to a handful of streets and rooms. Home.
The store. A run through the same paths.
Groceries at the same shop. Visits to Aiden or Ciarán’s places, where I felt safe.
I won’t even go to Abbie’s place because she has roommates I don’t know.
I need predictability now, I need to know what to expect.
I wasn’t always this bad. Somehow, time only made it worse. You’d think distance would loosen his grip, but it’s the opposite. The longer I’m free, the more I hide. As if the outside world grew sharper in his absence, as if I lost the ability to live in it.
“I know it doesn’t make sense. I got out more when I was still with him, and now I…” I trail off, unable to force the truth all the way out.
“Cling to what feels safe,” Ciarán finishes for me.
I nod, throat thick.
The truth is uglier than that. I despise this loop I’ve trapped myself in, hate how small it is, how it makes me feel like I’m vanishing.
I want more. I want to live my life.
The wanting comes with memories, good ones for a change.
The clatter of cutlery against plates, the fizz of mimosas poured too generously, Abbie’s laughter so loud, the next table stares, Ciarán waving his hands excitedly mid-story.
My cheeks aching from smiling, the air humming with noise and warmth and belonging.
I want that again. I want to walk into a place like Kindle’s and not feel panicked. I want to sit at a table with them and laugh until my stomach hurts. I want to feel like the world outside these walls isn’t dangerous.
I want to be the version of myself who can do that.
I just don’t know how to get back to him.
“You don’t have to stay in to stay safe,” Abbie says. Her words land like a weight and a lifeline all at once, because I know she’s right.
Ciarán’s voice is more tender than I’m used to. “Brunch isn’t just brunch. It’s us. You belong there.”
My nose stings as he says it. I look between them, my heart hammering. They’re not pushing, not really. They’re encouraging me, reminding me there’s still a place for me, if I’m brave enough to step into it.
“I’ll think about it,” I murmur.
Abbie squeezes my hand again before leaning back. “That’s all we ask.”
After they leave, exhaustion settles over me.
I busy myself with tidying the takeout containers. That’s when I see it, stuck to the tea canister in Noah’s handwriting.
A bright blue square.
For Gabe only. Secret stash, check the third shelf, behind the Earl Grey. - N
A shaky laugh slips out as I open the cupboard, move the tea tin, and there they are—Oreos, hidden like treasure. I know we ran out, so he obviously got these for me. It’s the kind of little thing no one else would think to do, but he has. He thinks about me, about what I like, and leaves me proof.
For a moment, the warmth of it sinks in. It makes me feel a way I don’t know how to handle.
I take one of the cookies, twist it open, and scrape the icing with my tongue before eating the halves one at a time. The familiar sweetness settles on my tongue. A simple action I’ve done since I was a kid. Something predictable. Something I can control.
Sweet, simple, safe.
Later, lying in bed, the thought of brunch comes back, and the spiral starts.
It always starts the same way—one thought, then another, faster, sharper, until it feels like someone is pressing a hand forcefully to my chest. My heart kicks hard, like it’s trying to punch its way out.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe through it, counting. One, two, three…
But the images keep coming.
The diner, crowded and too loud, forks scraping on plates, chairs shrieking against the floor.
People pressed too close, brushing against me when they pass, and my body jolts as though it’s really happening.
Eyes turning toward me, catching the scar on my cheek, wondering about it, staring too long.
I can feel it already—the heat crawling up my neck, the panic rising until it spills out.
All my shame and fear on display for all to see.
Abbie’s voice dipping gently, and Ciarán trying to calm me with a joke that sounds light.
Their faces shifting when they realize how bad it really is, how broken I still am. How much I keep from them.
I resent myself for the fact that this is where my mind goes. I hate that the idea of being around the people I love makes my pulse spike like this.
I roll onto my side, bury my face in the pillow, but the thoughts follow.
The more I fight them, the louder they get.
I can’t breathe.
What if I can’t do things like that anymore? What if that version of me—the one who laughed at brunch, who wasn’t afraid of being seen—what if he doesn’t exist anymore? What if this is who I am now, small and scared and shut in?
Why did he do this to me? Why did he make me like this?
I hold my breath until my lungs sting. Until the edges of the room tilt, like I’ve stepped out of myself. If I stay still enough, if I stop the air from moving, maybe the thoughts will stop, too.
They don’t, they change shape—sharp to dull, noise to pressure. My head starts to swim. If I starve my lungs, everything else will starve with it, too—the panic, the impossible pull of wanting something I can’t have. The fear. The shame. The constant barrage of sickening memories.
Why did I let him do those things to me?
My lungs protest, but I stay with it. Longer than I should. I let the fire spread beneath my ribs. I deserve this pain. I don’t deserve brunch with friends who still choose me after everything. I don’t deserve a table full of laughter when I can’t even look in the mirror without wanting to cry.
My nails dig crescents into my palms. My head buzzes. Black spots flicker at the edges of my vision. I count past the place I usually stop. Past safe. Past reason. It feels like a punishment and a release at once.
For a few seconds, it’s just me and the pain.
My body wants to breathe, but I don’t.
The pressure builds until it’s all I can feel.
The rain starts suddenly, hammering against the window, and it startles me enough that my breath stutters. It’s ugly, a gasp that rattles like a sob. Air burns down my throat. Shame floods in right behind it—thick and choking.
I don’t even need to tell myself I shouldn’t keep doing this. I already know.
The rain is relentless, like a drumbeat, and it drags me back into the present. Noah comes to the forefront of my mind; I think of him walking back in this weather—hoodie plastered to his shoulders, hair darkened and curling damp against his temple. Concern rises. I focus on that instead.
I go to the living room, I gather one of his sweatshirts from the back of the couch—the navy one he wears most often—and run my thumb over the soft cotton, the faint roughness where it’s started to age at the cuffs.
It smells like him, cedarwood and fresh linen and something warm underneath.
I have the urge to bring it to my nose, inhale the scent of him. The comfort.
Instead, I tuck it into the dryer, so it’ll be warm when he gets home. The low sound fills the apartment, and I lean against the counter, letting it soak through me.
When the tension in my body eases, I pull a blank note from the drawer.
Your hoodie is in the dryer.
I stare at it for an eternity, then add:
Didn't want you to be cold. – G
I stick it to the apartment door, where he’ll see it before coming in. Then I turn out the lights and head back to bed. Fatigue overcomes me. I turn onto my side, pull the blanket up to my chin, and lie there in the dark, feeling wrung out but more settled than I did before.
I don’t remember if I locked the door. I’m too tired to get up, my eyes feel so heavy.
Noah will lock it.