Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Yosh
Green tea is my fuel. Add a few shreds of dried hibiscus and it’s the perfect infusion for an energized morning. My left hand tightens around the mug as I scribble down a few notes from last night’s conversation with Tom.
To my surprise, he’d come looking for me to apologize. To my even bigger surprise, he’d stayed, wanting to share a sunset with me. And to my biggest surprise, he’d opened up afterward.
After a heavy conversation about his family history, we talked about lighter subjects. The island, how it always rains in Amsterdam, and of course, music.
He told me his dream was to play every instrument in the world. Every single one.
Tom said life was a never-ending journey to learn everything about music and the cultures woven through it.
I thought that was beautiful.
I asked him about his favorite instrument.
The violin, he answered immediately. Well, he calls it the fiddle.
He told me that playing the fiddle could take him back to his childhood in Aberdeen, to what he called his ‘carefree days.’
That’s where the listening had stopped and the wondering started.
Carefree?
How can he call his childhood carefree after everything he told me about his family situation?
It doesn’t add up. It feels like he’s giving me the version he can live with sharing. And just like that, my vision changed.
Letting him talk had been too easy. There has to be more.
Maybe the things he struggles with hadn’t happened in early childhood, but in the years that followed.
That thought came to me when I woke in the middle of the night and replayed every word we’d spoken. I was so invested in remembering our exact words that it was a miracle I’d fallen back asleep.
I have to be careful not to push him too soon. But if I truly want to understand him, I have to keep listening. I have to keep asking.
I take a sip of my tea. Cold.
I wonder what today will bring.
A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. I check my watch. He’s five minutes early.
Good to see he took my warning about being on time seriously.
“Come in,” I call out. I quickly swap my notes for a blank sheet of paper.
When I look up, I find him smiling at me. It’s a complete change from the energy he brought in yesterday.
It confuses me, but I can’t deny the sudden warmth that pushes away the cold prickle on my skin.
“Bom dia,” he says as he takes a seat in front of me.
“Bom dia, Tom.” Him greeting me in Portuguese is a small thing, but it tells me he’s trying.
“You’re early.” I tease.
He grins, shrugging. “Yeah, I thought I’d surprise you today. Keeps things interesting, right?” And with those words, his sapphires lock onto mine, stealing my breath. I try to look away, but my eyes betray me the moment they catch that mischievous curl tugging at his lips.
This is bad.
“Let’s… let’s sit on the couch, it’s way more comfortable to talk.” I clear my throat as I move from my desk, leading Tom to the treatment area of my studio.
His eyes scan my collection of crystals as he takes a seat. I sit next to him.
I stay quiet. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but to see what he does with it.
Silence is delicate. It goes against how we’re wired. Most people rush to fill it. A joke, a comment about the weather, anything to make it stop feeling like a mirror.
I watch Tom. Is he nervous? Maybe. But if he is, he hides it well. It fascinates me because mastering the art of concealment doesn’t come naturally. It’s something learned through pain.
“How do you feel today?” I ask eventually.
“You have a lot of those…” he nods at the bookcase where I’ve arranged my crystals and gemstones in the order of the rainbow.
I take a purple crystal from the shelf and place it in Tom’s hands.
“This is an amethyst. It’s meant to calm the mind, bring inner peace. If you want, you can hold it while we talk.”
Tom’s fingers graze the sharp hexagonal edges.
“They’re beautiful.” There’s a trace of skepticism beneath his words. Still, he’s smart enough not to comment on it. His eyes are avoiding me. Maybe because he knows it’s time to talk?
No answer to how he’s feeling today. Fine.
I open my notebook, setting the pen to paper before I speak. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask,” he says. “I can’t promise an answer.”
“I read your file,” I say calmly. “It mentioned substance abuse. Alcohol. Drugs.” I give him a moment to process. “I know that’s something you’ve struggled with. Do you still?”
“You’re not really asking.” He grins. “You already know the answer.”
“Knowing and hearing it from you aren’t the same thing.”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. He’s staring through the shutters now, watching the world outside of this room pass by. But then he turns back to me.
“I haven’t touched anything since… since my heart stopped.”
He presses his thumbs into the amethyst’s rough hexagon structure. Then he sets it down on my glass coffee table.
“Just get to the point, no need for the velvet gloves. Ask me if I’m an addict.”
“Are you an addict?”
He folds his arms defensively. “I don't know. I watched my father go down that road, and I did everything in my power to make sure I wouldn’t end up like him. I only drank and used on weekends. That was the rule. And yeah, it was fucking hard all those times I wanted to numb myself during the week. But I didn’t give in. I still won't give in.”
My fingers tense around my pen. How many times had I tried to hold on to that rule myself? And how many times had I failed? Too many to count.
“I get why you fight it. And I don’t know many people who can hold on to that kind of control. But the fact that you have to keep fighting the urge, over and over, tells me something isn’t right. You have this constant battle happening inside you, even when you think you’re in control.”
I watch him struggle with that realization.
“You said you feel the need to numb yourself. Why is that?”
“It’s this thing I call the silence,” he whispers. “It comes in the middle of the night. Pain in my stomach, I can barely breathe, and my head feels like it’s about to explode. It’s like I’m so fucking trapped in that silence.”
He continues with a shaky voice. “During the day, I keep myself busy with work, family, the noise of Amsterdam. But right after midnight? It’s like playing the floor is lava in the depths of hell.”
That’s one way to describe a panic attack.
I hook my fingers over the edge of my notebook. He’s getting all honest now.
“I drink to take the edge off. I use drugs to forget. It’s not like I want to, but the hangovers are easier to handle than the silence. It feels like I don’t have a choice.”
The clawing demons I bound so tightly inside my head are rattling the chains.
His amber curls bounce in front of his face, hiding the tears I know are there. He doesn’t want me to see them.
My hand finds his arm, thumb brushing over his fine copper-bleached hairs. There’s this hint of tension before his muscles start to relax under my touch.
That’s when his watery eyes lift to meet mine. I see silent screams behind those blue eyes. His body reacts, I see it in the way his breathing gets uneven, a shiver running through his skin. He lets go before remembering he shouldn’t.
Then his gaze drops to my hand on his arm and flicks back to me.
Shit. What the hell am I doing?
I pull away immediately.
I grab the tissue box and slide it to him, hoping it will work as a smoke screen.
He rolls the tissue between his fingers before drying his waterlines.
“Thanks.”
I keep my expression neutral, even as something inside me wants to disappear.
All of it…it’s too close. Too real. This conversation takes me back to a time when I was still breathing, but my heart had died. Back then, no one had reached for me to pull me out of the darkness.
Maybe I want to give Tom the safety and support I never had. Someone who stays. Even when it’s hard, even when it hurts and things get ugly.
“You do have a choice, Tom, and I want you to know that there are ways to make the silence disappear for good.”
He scoffs. “You’re serious? How?”
“The silence is a response to something deeper. We can figure out why it’s there.”
He looks at me as if he sees water burning.
“A response to what?”
“The mind can push things down, but your body doesn’t forget. It finds ways to remind you, whether it’s through pain, exhaustion, or feeling like you’re suffocating the moment the world around you goes quiet.”
He stares into the void, letting it all sink in. The small nod he offers shows he’s trying to understand.
“I suggest that over the next weeks, we talk about events in your past. About the things you might not even realize are connected to this. Because until you do, this cycle is going to keep repeating itself, and I know that’s not what you want.”
“And if I don’t want to talk about my past?”
His voice isn’t defensive anymore. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounds more like a plea.
“Then we don’t. There are other ways to work through this as well. But I want you to know that the silence doesn’t go away on its own.”
“I know,” he mutters, then he rubs his temples. “I know,” the second time to convince himself.
“I won’t lie to you. It won’t be easy, and there will be days where it feels worse before it gets better. If you’re open to it, I’ll support you through this process.”
Again, a nod.
Black tears streak down his face, tracing messy lines across his skin. He grabs another tissue, wiping them away. I hadn’t even noticed he was wearing mascara to darken his lashes.
He sniffs, wiping away a last tear. “So, when do we start?”