Chapter 26 #2
“Good,” Thomas replied. “Don’t skip it just because today cracked you open.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder, solid and grounding. “You don’t have to bleed alone anymore, man.”
I left the site just as the last of the sun was disappearing behind low clouds, the wood and metal of the new build still smelling of sawdust and fresh paint. My hands ached, my back was tight, but my chest… my chest was lighter than it had been when I arrived.
My trip home lasted long enough for me to shower and change my clothes.
I didn’t want the silence of the place to hit me yet.
I drove to the crisis line center. The city streets were slick with rain, windshield wipers smearing the neon signs into streaked trails.
Every turn made my fingers twitch against the wheel, every stoplight pulsing like my heart — the tension I’d carried for months, waiting to be set down somewhere safe.
I hung my jacket, sat in the small cubicle, and exhaled. Headset on. Pen poised over a notepad. The first call came in: a woman, voice tight, trembling.
“I… I can’t… I don’t know if I can get out of bed today…”
Her words hit me like they had hit me every night Elliot had been trapped in that darkness. I remembered the notes. The car. The accident. The emptiness in his eyes. My own hands shaking as I tried to save him before he almost died.
I leaned forward. “I hear you. I hear how heavy this is,” I said. My voice low, steady, carrying every ounce of control I could muster. “You’re not alone.”
The line went silent for a beat. I felt my stomach twist. Sweat pricked at my temples. Breathe. Don’t collapse into it. Be the safe place.
“I don’t… I can’t stop crying…” she cried finally, voice raw.
“I know,” I said. “And that’s okay. It’s okay to feel all of it. You don’t have to push it away. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.”
Her sobs hit my chest like a fist, and I imagined my own heart cracking open with hers.
I was sweating through my shirt, leaning against the edge of the desk to hold myself upright.
I let myself feel it. The guilt, the grief, the regret.
Every person on the other end of this line was a reminder of why I’d failed before, and why I needed to get it right now.
She spoke again, smaller, fragile. “Why do I even keep going?”
“Because you want to live,” I spoke softly, almost to myself. “And because you deserve help. You’re allowed to want that. You’re allowed to ask for it.”
My words were met with silence, then a shaky breath. “Thank you.”
I nodded into the headset. I couldn’t see her, couldn’t touch her, but I could hold the space for her. I can hold the space for him, too, I thought. For Elliot.
The next call came quickly—a teenager, voice taut with fear and anger.
Every story, every word, dug into me, brought the sweat prickling along my spine.
My hands gripped the headset, knuckles white, and I spoke slowly, carefully: “You don’t have to face it alone.
We can work through this together. One moment at a time. ”
By the time I hung up after the third call, my back ached, my shirt was damp with sweat, and my chest felt hollow and full all at once. My body was raw. My mind buzzing with the fragments of lives I’d touched, even for a minute.
I let my forehead fall into my hands. This is what it means to care without taking. This is what it means to love without destroying.
I realized, in that moment, why I could never fully trust my own impulses with Elliot before.
I had tried to fix him by absorbing his pain, by pretending my presence would shield him from the world.
But that only scared him. Only left him broken.
Now, sitting here, offering my full attention to strangers in crisis, I understood how to hold without hurting.
When the shift ended, I pulled off the headset, running a hand over my face.
The neon light of the center flickered through the rain-streaked windows.
I let myself shiver, exhausted, and finally—finally—I felt a spark of hope that I could be what Elliot deserved.
Not someone who ran. Not someone who took.
Someone who stayed steady, and gave space to heal.
I took out a notebook I’d kept tucked in my bag, the one with the blank pages I’d never filled but always kept just in case. My hand shook at first, but then the words began to flow.
I’ve learned to love you without taking pieces of you. I hope someday you’ll let me offer pieces of me. If you’re ready to try, meet me here. Find me in the place where we used to hide. Come if you’re ready to stop running from the past and face our future.
I paused, breathing deep, letting the ink dry as the rain hammered against the roof. My fingers trembled over the page.
I don’t want you to need me to live. I want you to want to live.
The letter felt heavy and light at the same time. The guilt and fear still lingered, yes. But beneath it, a fierce, unshakable love. One that could finally be patient, careful, and real.