Chapter 40 Silas
FORTY
SILAS
I drop into the familiar leather chair, the one that’s starting to feel like it’s molded to my shape after all these months. Cella’s already settled across from me, mug of tea in hand, that warm, steady smile on her face that always makes the room feel smaller, safer.
“Hey, Silas,” she says, voice soft but bright. “You look… lighter today. Something’s shifted?”
I exhale, rubbing my palms on my thighs. “Yeah. A lot’s shifted, actually.” I meet her eyes, let the words come slow. “Luke and I… we’re back together. Or—talking again. Seeing each other. Whatever you call it when two people who should’ve never let go finally stop being idiots and try again.”
Her brows lift slightly, surprise flickering before it softens into something genuinely pleased. She sets her mug down, leaning forward just a little.
“Wow. Okay. That’s big.” She pauses, giving me space. “Tell me about it. How did this happen? And how are you feeling about it?”
I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head.
“It started at the bar I work at. He walked in with his friends. When I saw him, part of me froze. Then I went on break, and he followed me. He told me he understood why I left—why I thought I was protecting him. Thanked me for it, even. And I—” I swallow.
“I told him I was sorry. That I never wanted to hurt him. That I still loved him. Then he suggested we get coffee sometime, and…I texted him the next day…and…” I swallow unsure how she’s going to react to this.
Please, don’t tell me I’m doing the wrong thing. “And, we’ve been inseparable since.”
Cella’s smile widens, soft and unguarded, the kind that makes the room feel even warmer. She leans back slightly, giving me space to keep breathing through it.
“Inseparable,” she repeats gently, letting the word settle between us. “That’s a beautiful word to use, Silas. It sounds like something opened up for both of you.” She pauses, eyes steady on mine. “How are you feeling about that pace? The speed of it all?”
I exhale through my nose, fingers still rubbing slow circles on my jeans.
“Terrified. And… relieved. Like I’ve been holding my breath for a year and someone finally told me it was okay to let it out.
” I laugh again, quieter this time. “We’re being careful, though.
Talking—really talking—about the past, about what we want now.
No secrets. No disappearing. It’s…it feels right. Scary right.”
She nods, slow and thoughtful. “Scary right is a perfect way to describe it. It sounds like you’re both choosing vulnerability instead of secrets and protection this time. That’s huge growth—for you especially, given how hard you used to try to control everything.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “That’s why I’m here today.
There’s something else gnawing at me. I’ve been thinking about visiting Xavier.
It’s been a couple weeks, and I feel like I need to go.
But part of me wants to use it as… I don’t know, closure?
A way to say goodbye, so I can be fully present with Luke.
But that doesn’t sit right. It feels like I’d be abandoning him.
Like if I let go completely, I’m erasing what we had.
Xavier was my past—he shaped me. Luke’s my future.
How do I hold space for both without feeling like I’m betraying one? ”
Cella’s expression softens even more. She sets her mug aside completely now, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, completely present.
“It sounds like you’re grappling with loyalty—to your memories of Xavier and to the life you’re building with Luke.
What does ‘saying goodbye’ mean to you in this context?
Is it about letting go of guilt, or something else? ”
Cella’s expression stays soft, steady, as though she’s holding the weight of my words with me. She leans forward just a fraction, voice gentle but clear.
“Silas…that guilt you’re carrying—it’s so heavy, and it makes perfect sense that it’s showing up now.
You loved Xavier. You wanted to protect him.
You wanted to keep him safe, keep him whole.
And when the injury happened, when everything changed, part of you still believes you should have been able to stop it.
That if you’d been better, faster, stronger, more…
something…the outcome would have been different. ”
She pauses, letting that sit for a second before continuing.
“But here’s what I want you to hear, and I want you to really try to take it in: you did not have the power to control that outcome.
No one did. Traumatic brain injuries can happen at any time, and they don’t wait for someone to be ‘good enough’ or ‘strong enough’ or ‘prepared enough.’ They don’t respond to love, or effort, or willpower.
You couldn’t save him from it—not because you failed, but because it was never within your control to begin with.
Outcomes are not ours to command. We can only control what we bring to the moment: our presence, our care, our honesty.
And from everything you’ve shared, you brought all of those things to Xavier.
You loved him fiercely. You stayed. You fought for him.
That matters. Even if he can’t remember it, even if the injury took the memory away, it doesn’t erase what you gave. ”
Her eyes are kind, unwavering. “The guilt wants to tell you a story where you had the reins the whole time because you were his coach. But that story isn’t true.
It’s just the story grief tells when it’s trying to make sense of something senseless.
Letting go of that illusion of control doesn’t mean letting go of Xavier.
It means honoring the truth of what happened—and giving yourself permission to stop punishing yourself for something you never had the power to change. ”
I swallow hard, throat tight. Her words land like cool water on a burn—painful at first, then soothing.
She’s said something similar in the past, and I’ve been working on letting go of the feeling that if I had been able to control it that everything would be different.
I think I’m there, and then I have little backslides like today. But that’s why I’m here.
She tilts her head slightly. “What comes up for you when you hear that? That the outcome wasn’t yours to control?”
I let out a shaky breath. “It…hurts. Because if I couldn’t save him, then what was the point of all of it? But it also…feels like relief. Like maybe I can stop carrying the blame. Just a little.”
“That’s exactly right,” she says softly.
“Relief and grief can coexist. They don’t cancel each other out.
And inviting Luke into this visit—into this part of your story—could help you hold both.
You wouldn’t be choosing between them. You’d be saying, ‘This is who I am, all of it, and I want you here with me.’ That’s a really big step in the right direction. ”
I nod slowly, the idea settling deeper. “I think… I want to ask him. To come with me again. To let him see it all.”
Cella’s smile is warm, quiet, and proud. “That’s a brave, loving choice, Silas. And whatever happens next, you’re already doing the work. That’s what matters most.”
We wrap up a few minutes later—homework to journal about the conversation I’ll have with Luke, a reminder to be gentle with myself. As I stand, she gives me one last steady look.
“I’m rooting for you,” she says, sincere as always. “This could be a turning point. Let me know how the talk goes.”
I nod, throat thick. “I will. Thanks—for everything.”
She rises too, offering her hand. “You’ve got this, Silas. One honest step at a time.”
I step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me.
For the first time in a long time, visiting Xavier doesn’t feel like carrying a debt I can never repay. It feels like an opportunity to move forward. A way to let Luke in—and finally stop punishing myself for something that was never mine to control in the first place.
It’s a Thursday evening, the kind of quiet that settles after a long day.
Luke is sprawled on my couch, one of my old hoodies swallowing him whole.
He’s scrolling through his phone, half-watching some cooking video, half-laughing at whatever Ty just sent in the group chat.
The lamp beside him throws a soft gold across his face, and for a second, I just stand in the doorway and watch—marveling, again, that he’s here. That we’re here.
I clear my throat lightly.
He glances up, smile instant and easy. “Hey. You okay? You’ve got that thinking face on.”
I cross the room, sit on the coffee table so I’m facing him, knees brushing his. “Yeah. Just…thinking about something I want to do this weekend.”
“Something fun?” He grins over at me.
“Uh,” I clear my throat again. “I want to visit Xavier."
He sets his phone down, giving me his full attention. “Xavier?”
He’s not asking who Xavier is, I know that so I inhale and nod. “It’s been a couple weeks. I usually go every ten days or so. I’m planning to head out Saturday morning. Early. Before the place gets crowded.”
Luke’s expression softens—no surprise, no hesitation, just quiet understanding. “You want company?”
I exhale, relieved he asked so I don’t have to push.
“I’d like that. But only if it feels right for you.
No pressure. I know it’s… heavy. And I know last time, when I tried to hold it in, it didn’t really help either of us—” I reach for his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“I want you there, if you want to be there.”
He squeezes my hand back, blue eyes steady. “I want to come. I’m glad you asked.”
I let out the breath I was holding in a soft chuckle. “Okay. Saturday, then. Early. I’ll drive.”
He leans forward, presses a quick kiss to my mouth. “Deal.”
Saturday morning is crisp, the kind of late summer day that has the feel of the start of a fall day, even though it will get warm later.
The drive to the care facility is quiet—not tense, just comfortable.
Luke’s hand rests on my thigh most of the way, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.
When we pull into the parking lot, he doesn’t rush to unbuckle, he just turns to me.
“You good?”
I nod. “Yeah. Better than last time.”
“Then let’s go see him.”
Inside, the halls are familiar: pale walls, soft lighting, the faint smell of antiseptic and oatmeal. The nurse at the desk recognizes me, gives a warm nod. “He’s in the sunroom today. Good mood.”
We find him by the window—wheelchair angled toward the garden, sunlight catching in what’s left of his hair. He always looks thinner than I remember, but his eyes are bright today, alert in that fleeting way they sometimes are.
I crouch beside him first, voice gentle. “Hey, Xav. It’s Silas.”
He turns slowly, blinks at me like he’s trying to place the face. No recognition. No spark. Just polite curiosity.
“Hi,” he says, voice raspy but cheerful. “Did you go to the game?”
I swallow the familiar ache, but it doesn’t hit as hard today. “No. I missed it. Tell me about it.”
He lights up—suddenly animated, hands gesturing. “We won! Last play of the game—perfect spiral, right into the end zone. Crowd went nuts. You should’ve seen it.”
Luke kneels on the other side, easy smile in place. “Sounds epic. Who caught it?”
Xavier turns to him, no hesitation. “Kid with the fast feet. Number 12. Hell of a catch.”
Luke nods as though it’s the most important story he’s ever heard. “Hell yeah. Bet the defense was pissed.”
Xavier laughs—short, rusty, but real. “They were crying in the locker room. Crying!”
We stay like that for almost an hour—letting him retell the same game he’s told me a dozen times, cheering the highlights, asking questions when he pauses.
Luke jumps in naturally—laughing at the right moments, nodding along, even squeezing Xavier’s shoulder once like they’re old teammates. No pity. No awkwardness. Just presence.
When Xavier starts to tire, eyes drifting, I lean in one last time.
“Thanks for telling us, man. We’ll come back soon.”
He gives a tired smile. “Bring the kid next time. Number 12.”
I choke on a laugh. “Will do.”