Chapter Fourteen
Issaky had been standing in his kitchen with the refrigerator door open, one sock on and the other abandoned somewhere near the couch, staring into the shelves like the answer to something might be waiting there.
The light inside the fridge hummed softly, a steady, domestic sound that felt absurdly loud in the stillness of the apartment.
He hadn’t eaten much since Clyde died. He knew this.
His body knew this. His hands shook faintly when he reached for the milk carton and then stopped halfway, like the idea of pouring it into a glass had required more executive function than he could muster.
Hunger had become a distant signal, something muted and ignorable.
He felt guilty to admit that his lack of sleep and hunger weren't entirely because Clyde had died. Sure, he liked the guy–he respected the hell out of him–but his main concern was Ellis. It had seemed to be that way since he came into Issaky’s life.
And he supposed if it hadn't been for Clyde and his store, he may have never even met Ellis. The thought made his stomach churn.
His phone buzzed on the counter and the sound startled him enough that he flinched. He almost didn’t look at it.
That was the thing—he had learned, in the week and a half since Ellis had pulled away, to hesitate.
To train himself out of reflexive hope. To not leap every time his phone lit up, to not build entire futures out of three dots that might disappear without explanation.
He had learned to let messages sit unopened for a few seconds longer than instinct demanded, just to prove he could.
Almost.
He closed the refrigerator door, the seal thumping shut with finality, and leaned back against the counter. The phone lay face-up beside him, screen glowing insistently. Ellis's name hovered there, familiar and sharp, like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.
It did, but Issaky picked it up anyway.
El:
I’m sorry I disappeared. I just needed everything to stop for a bit.
Issaky exhaled hard, the breath leaving him in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief flared first, followed immediately by the familiar ache that always chased it. The kind that lived behind his sternum and refused to leave once invited in.
At least he’s alive, his mind offered, unhelpfully. Then the second message appeared.
El:
I don’t know how to be a person right now. I don’t think I’m very good at staying. I’m sorry.
The words hit him like a physical blow. Issaky’s chest tightened, breath catching halfway in.
He read it once. Twice. A third time, slower now, parsing the sentence the way he had parsed so many conversations before—searching for precision, for implication, for the thing Ellis was saying without quite saying.
He was good at this. Too good. He had grown up reading rooms, reading moods, reading the way someone’s shoulders tensed or their voice flattened right before something went wrong. He had learned, early, how to hear what wasn’t being said and to act accordingly.
I don’t think I’m very good at staying. I’m sorry.
Staying where?
Staying how?
Staying alive?
His thumbs hovered uselessly over the screen. A dozen responses crowded his mind at once—Are you safe? I’m coming over. Talk to me. Please don’t scare me like this. None of them felt right. All of them felt like they might tip something fragile over the edge.
Then a third message appeared, almost apologetic in its timing.
El:
I didn’t mean that to sound dramatic. I just wanted you to know.
Issaky closed his eyes, tipping his head back with a sigh.
He had buried people who had sent texts like that.
People who had followed up with reassurances.
People who had minimized their own pain right up until they couldn’t anymore.
People whose last words had been designed to make others feel less alarmed.
He didn’t text back. Instead, he grabbed his keys.
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The drive over blurred into a series of red lights and clenched jaws and the low, constant thud of fear settling deeper into his bloodstream with every passing block. Streetlights streaked past the windshield, too bright, too sharp. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles ached.
Don’t catastrophize, he told himself. Don’t assume the worst. This isn't like your mom.
Ellis had always been precise with language. Meticulous, even. If he meant that, he would say it. He wouldn’t couch it in metaphor or implication. This could just be grief. Or dissociation. Or exhaustion dressed up in words that landed wrong.
But Issaky had learned the hard way that logic didn’t stop disaster. He had learned that you could explain something perfectly and still end up standing in a hospital hallway staring at a closed door. That you could tell yourself you were overreacting and still be right to panic.
He parked crookedly in front of Ellis's building and didn’t bother fixing it.
The engine cut off with a shudder. He sat there for half a second longer than necessary, hands still on the wheel, grounding himself in the physical reality of the car.
The vinyl seat beneath him. The faint smell of old coffee from the drink he forgot to throw.
The fact that he was still moving, still able to do something.
Then he was out of the car, jogging up the steps two at a time. His pulse was loud in his ears, too loud. Every worst-case scenario lined up neatly in his head, orderly and relentless. Found him too late. Missed the signs. Didn’t push hard enough. Pushed too hard.
Once he made it into Ellis's building, he climbed the flight of stairs, unimpressed with the lack of security in the building.
He walked down the hall and looked for 25.
It was the last door on the right and he paused to take a moment before knocking.
The sound echoed down the hallway, dull and inadequate.
No answer. He knocked again, harder this time, the impact stinging his knuckles.
“Ellis,” he called, forcing his voice to stay level. “Hey. It’s me.”
Silence.
His stomach dropped, a cold, hollow sensation spreading outward. His hand hovered near the door handle, dread pooling in his gut.
The handle turned easily under his grip. It was unlocked?
“Oh, fuck,” Issaky breathed.
The door swung inward without resistance, like it had been waiting for him.
The apartment smelled wrong. Not rot. Not gas.
Nothing immediately catastrophic. But wrong in a way that set every alarm bell in his body ringing.
Stale alcohol hung in the air, sharp and sour.
Old smoke lingered beneath it, clinging to fabric and walls.
There was an undercurrent of something else too—neglect, maybe.
The smell of a space that hadn’t been cared for in days.
The lights were off. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing the apartment away from the outside world. The quiet inside felt thick, almost padded, like sound had been absorbed by the walls and furniture.
“I’m coming in,” Issaky said, out loud, to the empty apartment. To himself. He needed to hear his own voice, to anchor himself in the moment.
His shoes crunched softly on something just inside the door and he froze before looking down. Glass.
A bottle lay on its side near the entryway, label half-peeled, amber residue dried along the bottom. It wasn’t shattered completely—just cracked, enough to make the edges sharp. Enough to cut.
Issaky stepped around it carefully, heart hammering.
There was another bottle near the coffee table.
And another by the couch. Some were empty.
Some still held a swallow or two, liquid catching faint light from the streetlamp outside.
Cigarette butts crowded an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied in days, some crushed into the rim like they’d been put out too hard, too fast. Ash spilled onto the table in gray drifts.
This wasn’t Ellis's usual chaos. Ellis's messes were specific. Intentional, almost. Towers of books stacked according to some internal logic only Ellis understood. Half-finished mugs of tea abandoned when the temperature went cold. Papers laid out neatly and then forgotten.
This was different.
This was neglect.
This was someone who had stopped tending to the space they lived in.
Issaky moved deeper into the living room, scanning for signs—pill bottles, notes, anything that might explain the dread crawling up his spine.
His eyes snagged on unopened mail piled on the counter, envelopes curling at the edges.
Takeout containers were stacked haphazardly, lids askew.
The sink was full, water-stained dishes leaning at odd angles, like no one had bothered to rinse them.
The air felt heavy, unventilated. Like the apartment hadn’t been opened to the world in days.
“Ellis?” Issaky called again, louder now, his voice cracking despite his efforts.
Nothing.
Issaky had never been in Ellis's apartment.
This was not how he imagined the first time going.
A hallway stretched away toward the bedroom and bathroom, darker than the rest of the apartment.
Shadows pooled along the walls, deepening toward the end.
Issaky hesitated at the threshold, heart pounding hard enough that he felt it in his throat.
This was the moment, his mind whispered. This was where everything could go wrong.
Then he heard it. Music, so soft it barely registered at first. A low, droning instrumental—ambient, wordless, sound layered over itself in slow waves. The kind of music Ellis used when silence felt too sharp, when language felt dangerous.
Issaky swallowed and stepped into the hallway, moving slowly now, deliberately. Each footstep felt too loud, even though the carpet muted the sound. He didn’t want to rush. Didn’t want to burst into the room like a catastrophe announcing itself.
The bedroom door was closed but not latched. Light leaked faintly from beneath it, a thin line cutting through the darkness.
Issaky held his breath. Please, he thought—not praying to anything in particular, just sending the thought out into the dark. Please don’t let me be too late.
He pushed the door open.
Ellis lay sprawled diagonally across the bed, one arm flung over his face. He was fully clothed, shoes kicked off near the door, jacket discarded on the floor like it had been shrugged off without thought. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady.
Alive. The realization hit Issaky so hard his knees almost gave out. He hadn’t noticed he’d been holding his breath until it rushed out of him in a shaky exhale.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, voice barely there.
He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed. His hands hovered for half a second over Ellis's shoulder, fear freezing him in place. Touch him. Don’t touch him. What if—
He pushed the thought away and laid his hand down.
“Ellis,” he said, voice tight. “El, hey.” He shook him gently at first. Then a little harder.
Ellis groaned and turned his head away, the movement sluggish. “M’not—five more minutes,” he mumbled, words thick with sleep.
The sound broke something in Issaky. He laughed, a broken, almost hysterical sound that tore itself out of his chest, and shook him again.
“No,” he said, voice shaking now. “No, you’re not doing this to me. Wake up.”
Ellis blinked and then squinted before dragging his arm down from his face. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, pupils slow to adjust.
“What the hell,” he muttered. “Issaky?”
Issaky didn’t give himself time to think. He leaned forward and pulled Ellis into him, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, pressing his face into Ellis's neck. The smell of him—soap, sweat, smoke—hit Issaky all at once. His hands shook visibly. He didn’t try to hide it.
“I was worried about you,” he said, the words rough and unpolished. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Ellis stiffened immediately, his body going rigid in Issaky’s arms. For a split second, panic flared—had he misjudged? Had he crossed a boundary?
Then Ellis exhaled, slow and deliberate. His arms came up, hesitant at first, then settled around Issaky’s back, holding him just as tightly.
Issaky closed his eyes.
They stayed like that for several seconds—maybe longer—breathing each other in, grounding themselves in the simple shared warmth. Issaky’s heart began to slow, the frantic edge dulling into something manageable.
When he finally pulled back, he kept his forehead pressed to Ellis's, anchoring himself in the contact. “Talk to me,” he said softly. “Please.”
Ellis nodded but didn't start talking. Not right away. There was a pause—Ellis organizing himself, Issaky recognizing the signs now. The way Ellis went still when he needed to find language. The way his gaze drifted to the middle distance as he lined thoughts up internally.
Issaky shifted back, deliberately giving him space. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, forcing himself to stay still. To not fill the silence. To not rescue.
“I’m listening,” he said.
Ellis swallowed. “Grief,” he said slowly, like he was testing the word. “Feels… physical. For me. I don’t think people always understand that.”
Issaky nodded but didn’t speak.
From there, Ellis began to come undone, describing the way grief lived in his body, the heaviness, the static, the overload. Issaky listened, every nerve attuned, fear giving way to something quieter and deeper. This was Ellis trusting him with the rawest parts of himself.
When Ellis finally spoke of Clyde—of being seen, of losing his translator—Issaky felt the fear he’d carried all evening transform into resolve. Ellis's mom was a drunk, his dad was dead. Clyde was the only parental figure he had. Issaky understood that pain.
He stayed, he listened, and when Ellis finally leaned into him, asking not with words but with the shape of his body, Issaky wrapped himself around him and didn’t let go.
Not tonight. Not when staying was the hardest thing Ellis knew how to do.