Chapter 34 Roman
ROMAN
Three days later I’m sitting in Dr. Kim’s office which looks exactly the same as it did the one time I came with Matty—comfortable chairs, soft lighting, walls lined with books.
The woman herself has aged, silver threading through her dark hair, but her eyes are just as sharp.
“Roman.” She gestures to the chair across from her desk. “I’ve been hoping you’d come in.”
I sit, hands gripping the arms. “Why did you wait for me?”
She settles into her own chair, calm and unhurried. “I knew you’d come when you were ready.”
“What made you so sure I’d come at all?”
“Because you’re your brother’s keeper. Always have been.” Her voice is certain. “I knew eventually you’d need to address that burden—either because it became too heavy or because you found something worth setting it down for.”
“Both, I guess.”
“Tell me about the something.”
I think about Marnie waiting in the lobby. About the bruise on her face that I put there. About waking up every December 29th for five years feeling like I’m drowning.
“Her name is Marnie. She’s the team’s head PT.” The words come easier than I expected. “She doesn’t take any of my shit.”
Dr. Kim’s mouth curves slightly. “Sounds like someone I’d like. How long have you been together?”
“A few months, officially. But it felt significant from the beginning.”
“And this relationship prompted you to come in?”
Direct. That’s why I’m here—no point avoiding it.
“Yes.” My throat is tight. “Loving her makes me afraid. Of failing her like I failed him.”
Dr. Kim doesn’t react to the statement. Just watches me steadily.
“Can you tell me more about how you believe you failed Matthew?”
The weight settles across my shoulders.
“I should have seen how bad it was. Should have stayed in Seattle instead of going on that road trip. Should have checked in more.” I stop. “Should have answered his call the night before.”
“Those are all things you think you should have done differently. But what did you actually do?”
I’m momentarily stunned. “I don’t understand.”
“What actions did you take regarding your brother’s care? Before he died.”
I force myself to think past the guilt.
“I helped him find you. Went to appointments with him when he asked. Called or texted daily. Moved him into my house when he was at his worst.”
“And did Matthew ever express that you weren’t doing enough?”
“No.” The word feels like a betrayal. “He was always telling me to back off. That I worried too much.”
Dr. Kim nods like I’ve confirmed something. “Roman, I’m going to share something that might be difficult to hear.”
I hold my breath. This is where she tells me it was my fault. Matty did blame me. He must have told her something and she’s been waiting years to deliver this blow.
“Matthew talked about you in nearly every session. About how much he admired you. How grateful he was for your support.” She pauses. “And how guilty he felt for being, in his words, ‘your responsibility instead of just your brother.’”
The air leaves my lungs.
“He was particularly concerned about how his illness affected your career. He worried constantly that his needs were holding you back. That your need to protect him was preventing you from living your own life.”
“He was never a burden.” My throat hurts.
“To you, no. But in his mind—a mind affected by severe depression—he had become exactly that.” She leans forward slightly.
“Roman, the narrative you’ve constructed about failing your brother is at direct odds with how he viewed your relationship.
You see yourself as not having done enough.
He saw you as having done too much, to your own detriment. ”
I stand because I can’t sit with this. Move to the window. Stare at the Seattle skyline without seeing it.
“But if that’s true—” My voice sounds wrong. “Then why—”
I can’t finish. Can’t ask why he did it if I was doing everything right.
Because if I was doing everything right and he still died, then—
“Why did he take his own life?” Dr. Kim finishes.
I nod, still facing the window.
“Depression is a complex illness with many contributing factors. It’s not reducible to a single cause or preventable by a single person’s actions, no matter how loving or attentive.”
“But there must have been signs.” I turn to face her. “There must have been something I missed.”
“There often are signs. But they can be impossible to recognize without specialized training, especially when someone is deliberately concealing them.” She pauses. “Matthew was very good at hiding his darkest thoughts. Even from me.”
My hands curl into fists. “What do you mean even from you?”
“Even in our session the day before he died, I didn’t see this coming.”
The room tilts. I sit back down because my legs won’t hold me.
“You didn’t?”
“No.” Her voice is soft. “I’ve reviewed that session many times. There were subtle indications he’d made a decision, but nothing that clearly pointed to suicide. He’d become skilled at compartmentalizing—showing us what he thought we could handle while keeping the worst hidden.”
I stare at her. This woman with her degrees and training and years of experience.
“If you couldn’t see it—”
“Then you certainly couldn’t have,” she finishes. “That’s what I’m trying to help you understand. You didn’t fail Matthew. You couldn’t have saved him because he didn’t let anyone see what needed saving.”
The absolution should feel like relief.
Instead it feels like the floor dropping out from under me.
Because if I couldn’t have prevented it, if even his therapist missed it, then Matty died for no reason. Just chemicals and timing and a decision made in a moment I’ll never understand.
And that’s somehow worse than thinking I failed.
“It wasn’t your fault, Roman.” Dr. Kim’s voice is gentle but firm. “You didn’t fail Matthew. Depression failed him. But you? You were his rock until the very end.”
My throat closes. I press my fingers against my eyes, trying to physically stop what’s coming, but it doesn’t work.
My breath catches once, twice. A tear slides down and I wipe it away hard, angry that my body is betraying me like this.
“I still miss him.” The words come out broken. “Every day.”
“Of course you do. That’s the nature of love. It doesn’t end just because the person is gone.”
I force myself to breathe. To hold it together.
Dr. Kim doesn’t try to make it stop, just sits there quietly, a box of tissues within reach.
When I can speak again, my voice is wrecked.
“I think that’s what I’ve been most afraid of. Loving someone else that much. Opening myself to that kind of loss again.”
“With Marnie.”
“Yes.” I look at her directly. “What if I love her and lose her too?”
“That’s always the risk with love. But the alternative is never loving at all. Is that really a life you want to live?”
I think about five years of holding myself apart. Of keeping walls between myself and connection. Of existing rather than living.
Until Marnie crashed through those defenses.
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
Dr. Kim nods. “Then you already know what you need to do.”
When the session ends, I feel lighter and more exhausted than I’ve ever been.
“Roman?” She stops me before I can leave. “Matthew would be proud of you. For coming here. For letting yourself love someone. For choosing to live instead of just survive.”
My throat closes again, but I manage a nod before heading out.
Marnie’s waiting exactly where she said she’d be.
She stands the moment she sees me, eyes going to my face and reading everything there.
She doesn’t ask if I’m okay—she can see I’m not. Just walks over and wraps her arms around me.
I hold her there, not caring who sees. Let myself take what she’s offering—the solid reality of her, the comfort of being held by someone who knows exactly how wrecked I am and isn’t trying to fix it.
“You need anything?” she asks quietly against my chest.
“Just this.” My voice is still rough. “Just you.”
She pulls back after a moment, studies my face. “Home?”
I nod.
In the truck, she doesn’t push for details. Just sits close, hand on my thigh, letting me have silence.
Seattle traffic moves around us and I focus on the road, on Marnie’s hand, on anything except the weight in my chest.
At home, I go straight to the couch.
Marnie sits beside me, not crowding, just present.
“How are you feeling?” she asks after a moment.
I think about Dr. Kim’s office. About Matty feeling like a burden. About the therapist not seeing it coming either.
“Exhausted,” I say. “But maybe a little less—” I stop, searching for the word. “Less stuck.”
She nods, doesn’t push for more. Just takes my hand.
I pull her closer, not ready to talk more but needing her here.
We sit like that for a long time, not talking, just breathing.
Her phone buzzes. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, and goes still.
“What?” I ask.
“Email from HR.” She’s staring at the phone. “They want to interview me tomorrow. About Winters’ complaint.”
My stomach drops. “Tomorrow?”
“Two PM.” She looks at me. “Guess we’re doing this.”
“You’ll be fine. Your documentation is solid.”
“I know. I just—” She stops. “It’s been hanging over me and now it’s actually happening.”
I turn to face her. “What do you need?”
She thinks about it for a moment, then repeats my words from earlier.
“Just you. Being there. Not trying to fix it, just—there.”
“I can do that.”
She nods, sets her phone down. “Okay. Tomorrow at two.”