Chapter 44
Iwatched him walk toward that house like he was heading into a battlefield, and in a way, he was.
His shoulders looked even broader than usual, squared with something that might have been courage or maybe just sheer exhaustion.
Maybe both. The wind caught his hair, tugged at the hem of his hoodie, but he hadn’t flinched.
Hadn’t hesitated. Not until he reached the front steps.
Then he did what he always did, paused just long enough to break my heart. And then I watched him knock.
I held my breath until my vision swam a little, then let out a shaky exhale that fogged up the windshield.
One hand was touching my lips where his had just been.
The other still gripped the envelope he’d left on the console.
My name was written across it in his messy, all-caps handwriting like he hadn’t known how else to make it mean something.
My fingers hovered over the letters. Part of me didn’t want to open it.
Like it would be cheating. Like it would be admitting that I was afraid of what was inside.
Afraid of admitting how I felt. Afraid of thinking of a time where I hadn’t been in orbit around a world where he existed.
But I was. I was so afraid. Not just of what would happen inside that house, but of what I imagined would happen after.
After he screamed, after he cried, after he exhumed everything that had been poisoning him for decades, what would be left?
Would he still need me? Would he still want me?
Would he be worse? Would it destroy all of his healing, and would I really, truly lose him?
Because somewhere along the way I had stopped pretending that it was just a job.
Somewhere between session four and session ten—maybe even earlier—I had started memorizing the way his voice cracked when he talked about hope like it was a language he’d forgotten.
Or had never known. I had started noticing the way his hands shook when he smiled, how he always tried to hide it.
How he looked at the world like he didn’t want to be in it—and then, somehow, like he did.
God help me, I had fallen for him. Not in the way you’re supposed to fall for someone. It wasn’t slow or subtle. It was inconvenient. Inappropriate. Complicated. But it was real.
I took a deep breath, and opened the envelope.
If you’re reading this, it means I went inside.
It means I found the nerve. The courage. Or maybe just the final breaking point. I’m not sure which yet.
But I needed you to know something before I walked through that door—something I might never get the words out to say, not in the right order, not out loud. And if somehow I don’t come back, it can’t stay unsaid.
You saved me.
I know you’re going to argue with that. You’ll say I did the work.
You’ll say I showed up. But you were the reason I showed up.
You were the reason I didn’t walk into traffic, or touch a power line, or jump from a rooftop.
I didn’t stop because I stopped wanting to die.
I stopped because I started wanting… something else.
Something soft. Something steady. Something that was you.
You’re the first person who saw me—really saw me—and didn’t look away.
You stayed when I was sharp, when I was heavy, when I was too much.
You stayed when I couldn’t meet your eyes.
You stayed when I cried on your couch like some broken kid.
And I think that’s when it happened. That’s when it started.
The thing I don’t know how to say. But I think you already know.
I’m still not afraid of death.
But I am now more afraid of missing out on life with you. I’m afraid of missing out on you.
If somehow fate intervenes and I don’t come back, I want you to know that being loved by you, (I know you never said it and maybe I’m being presumptuous but fuck if I didn’t feel it) in even the smallest ways, was the thing that made me want more.
It was real to me. I hope it was real to you too.
I hope, somewhere in your heart, you know what you mean to me.
That if I had a choice, if I could rewrite all the pages of my life, they’d lead me straight to you.
Faster. Sooner. More whole. But I can’t change it, so I’ll take it exactly how it was.
Because I have no other choice but to love you with all my broken, fucked up pieces.
And just in case I don’t get to say it with my own mouth, I need you to know that I put your name on my bank account. Because there’s no one else I would give my life to. Not just my things… my life.
You’re it for me, Iris. You’re the only ending that ever made staying make sense for.
Wait for me, sweetheart.
— me
I parked across the street from the cemetery; my hands rested on the steering wheel even after the engine went silent.
The sun in the sky was suddenly covered by a gray cloud giving off a soft, moody kind of light that made everything feel like it was waiting for something to happen.
The trees rustled gently above, casting long shadows across the rows of stones that stretched out like stories untold.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I just looked at the gates.
Then I saw Carter. He stood near the entrance in a black shirt and black pants.
His hands were shoved into his pockets, hair sticking up like he hadn’t bothered to fix it, and when he saw me, he smiled—just a little.
Not the bright kind. The quiet kind. The kind you save for people who’ve been through hell with you.
I got out of the car and walked toward him.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost reverent.
“Hi.”
We stood there, side by side, both looking at the cemetery gates like they might bite.
“They make these places look so peaceful,” he said, kicking at a pebble near his boot. I exhaled and smiled faintly.
“It’s a big day.”
He nodded, sobering. “Yeah. It is.”
We started walking together. The gravel path crunched underfoot, the smell of cut grass mingled with the faint earthy scent of damp stone.
All around us were headstones with last names and dates, and etched prayers.
I tried not to imagine what people would think if they saw us, two quiet figures moving through a place meant for endings.
Carter was silent until he asked, “Do you think he knew? How much people gave a shit?”
My throat tightened. “He knew.”
“Good,” he murmured. We passed an angel statue, weather-worn and soft with moss. Carter stopped and reached out, brushing a finger along the edge of its wing. He looked over at me.
“I know you’re sick of me saying this. But thank you for what you did for him.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t do anything. I just sat with him long enough for him to remember who he was. Who he could be.”
“Don’t be humble. It’s disgusting.” He nudged my shoulder. I laughed, eyes suddenly watery.
“Shut up.”
We walked for a bit, saying nothing, letting the quiet say the rest. Then we veered off the path near a cluster of sycamores, where a worn foot trail dipped left through the trees.
“The irony is not lost on me that this shortcut is through a cemetery,” Carter said, snorting.
I followed him, pushing a tree branch out of the way, nodding in agreement.
Ironic indeed. My heart started to pound with anticipation.
The kind that crackled behind your ribs and gave you butterflies.
The trees opened to a clearing where a dock jutted out over a lake—calm and blue-gray like glass, framed by hills that looked like they’d seen every season and then some.
The cemetery lay just beyond the rise behind us, but here…
it was a different world. Seven people stood waiting for us on the dock.
Three women. Four men. One in a beanie with healing cuts wrapped in bandages on his wrists.
One with a guitar strapped to his back. One with pink hair and combat boots.
A woman in a denim jacket and red lipstick.
Another with a notebook, her fingers stained with ink.
They looked up as Carter and I approached.
“Welcome back to the Undead Club,” Carter announced with a grin, spreading his arms like a game show host. Laughter broke out across the dock.
Not polite laughter but real, belly-deep; we earned this kind of laughter.
One of the men stepped forward, he was in his mid-twenties, with a head full of wild curls, he had the brightest blue eyes under dark heavy brows.
“It’s been three weeks since my last attempt,” he told us, holding up his wrists. Once I got close enough, I wrapped my arms around him.
“Three weeks and counting to infinity,” I whispered into his shoulder.
“Fuck yeah,” he said in agreement, stepping back with a smile that looked like it hadn’t touched his face in a long time.
The others clapped for him, celebrating his milestone as though it were their own, and for some of them it was.
You could feel it in the air—that this wasn’t just a dock.
It wasn’t just a lake. It was a sacred space carved out for a unique kind of healing.
A place where broken people found each other, where grief didn’t hide in shadows, and joy wasn’t rationed and controlled.
It had started with these seven but was rapidly growing beyond my wildest dreams.
A few months ago, it was just me, Carter, a post on social media, and a long list of desperate application emails in our inbox.
And now here we were, building something that shouldn’t have to exist—but did.
A refuge. A rebellion. A way forward. For those left behind by society with nowhere else to go.
The ones with the biggest feelings, the most brutal back stories, and a strong yearning for something more than just what life had handed them.
Carter slung a DSLR off his shoulder and started adjusting the settings.