Chapter Eighteen #2
‘What’s going on?’ she asked softly, brushing her long, stray curls behind her ears.
Tommy hesitated, his sneakers shuffling on the carpet. ‘I had that horrible dream again,’ he whispered, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor.
Nyah nodded understandingly. ‘Okay, well, let’s talk about it,’ she offered, guiding him to the cosy bean bags in the corner of her office.
As Tommy opened up to her, Nyah found herself slipping seamlessly into the role that had always given her purpose—offering guidance, support and a haven for those who needed it.
And as she listened to him recount the details of his nightmare, she couldn’t help but marvel at the resilience of children, and how they faced their fears head-on with such vulnerability and courage.
It was a stark reminder that healing was a journey, not a race against time.
And as Tommy’s worried expression gradually softened, she knew that in guiding him through his fears, she, too, had taken another step towards confronting her own.
The weight of her grief felt another fraction lighter, dispersed by the connection she’d just forged with the young boy sitting before her.
Smiling now, Tommy bid her goodbye and left her office with a newfound sense of reassurance.
Feeling as if she’d accomplished something worthwhile, she leant back in her chair, the remnants of sushi forgotten on her desk.
Closing her eyes briefly, she allowed herself a moment of respite from the tumultuous emotions that plagued her, readying herself for the next child that she so wholeheartedly wanted to help.
A few hours later, after the last young student had left with a brighter expression, Nyah sank into the couch and allowed her mask of composure to fall.
Breathing in the silence that now filled the room, heavy with the echoes of shared stories and unspoken fears, the weight of her emotions pressed down on her, but she knew she’d find the strength to do it all again tomorrow.
And that was enough to make her look forward to another day, even if she was living without Skye and aching for the company of Caleb.
One foot in front of the other.
One day to the next.
***
Days became a week, and weeks became a month.
With each of her therapy sessions, Nyah discovered new tools to help her cope—being a psychologist didn’t mean she knew how to psychoanalyse herself.
Much like a chef who barely cooked when they got home, she lacked the drive to work on herself after helping others all day.
But with Madeline’s guidance, she absorbed words that acted as anchors in moments of despair, learnt to relish moments of silence that allowed her to listen to her own heart, and welcomed thought-provoking questions that challenged her perspective on her journey.
‘Seeing as this is our last session for now, please remember this, Nyah.’ Standing to walk her to the door, Madeline offered a kind smile.
‘Anguish is not a road, but a vast landscape, and you truly are traversing it with grace and strength, so make sure you give yourself credit for coming so far, okay?’
‘I’ll try my best.’ Standing in the doorway, Nyah paused to take in the warmth from the afternoon light that was spilling into the room, and for the first time in what felt like a long while, she felt a renewed hope—a sense that maybe, just maybe, she could find her way out of the darkness, not just for the children she counselled, not just for Ragnar, and not because her father prayed for it to be so, but for herself.
‘Thank you, Madeline, for all you’ve helped me to see. ’
‘Of course.’ Madeline reached out and placed a hand on Nyah’s arm. ‘I’m here, any time you may need me.’
‘I know. For now, though, I’m ready to face all of it on my own.’ And with that, she left Madeline’s office a newer version of herself—a stronger, more centred, happier version.
The following morning, after an hour-long catch-up call with Caleb—their second of the week, as usual—the warmth of the sun radiated through her bare feet as they sank into the soft, sun-warmed sands of Palm Cove Beach.
Each step she took synced with the hushed whispers of the Coral Sea, creating a quiet rhythm that eased her body, spirit and mind.
Wandering the shoreline, she stayed close to where the tide gave foamy kisses to the sand, finding the soothing lapping of waves deeply therapeutic.
Taking a deep breath of the salty air tangling through her loose curls, she sighed softly.
Here, in this vast expanse of sea and sky, she found infinite room to breathe.
Slipping her hand into the pocket of her floaty dress, she traced the smooth edges of a small leather-bound journal.
Finding a secluded spot under a trio of pandanus trees providing dappled shade, she sat on the sand, crossed her legs and opened her journal.
With pen poised, she began to do what Madeline had asked her to, and wrote, pouring out a cascade of emotions, but this time in a letter to her sister.
‘Dear Skye,’ she wrote, as she whispered each word.
‘While walking along the beach today, I heard your laughter in the cries of seagulls and saw your smile in the crests of waves.’ Tears threatened to blur the ink, but she pressed on with determination to give voice to the heartache and love that lived within her.
‘Caleb is right in what he says: I know you’re with me, always, and I take great comfort in that.
’ She spoke softly, her bright blue eyes reflecting the vast open sky above.
‘I miss you, so much, every day. I hope wherever you are, you’re shining brighter than the stars I make wishes upon.
I love you, little sis, and will do, always. ’
Placing her pen down, she traced the letters of her sister’s name with gentle fingers, allowing herself to feel the tether of connection that remained unbroken by death or time, when an iridescent Ulysses butterfly, its wings as blue as the sea and sky, flittered gracefully around her.
Watching it for a moment, she couldn’t help but smile—this was a sign from the heavens, from her sweet Skye, she was certain of it.
She contemplated, again, how her dad wanted to hold a memorial for Skye back in Wildstone once he was given the all-clear to travel there, and she understood his compelling need to.
It was his youngest daughter’s only home.
It was where she’d lived and died. It was where she’d lain buried for years.
And even though Nyah had found her own closure, her father needed it, for his.
Later that day, she stood on the balcony of her home with a cup of Earl Grey tea, and Ragnar in a puffed-out heap beside her after having chased his squeaky duck around the backyard for half an hour.
In a bubble of blissful peace, she watched the sun dip below the horizon, and for five breathtaking minutes, the sky blazed with a vibrant display of orange and pink, like a canvas come to life.
Then, with the curtains closing on yet another glorious North Queensland day, she retreated into the sanctuary of her house.
Each step she took was a conscious decision to keep moving forward, to nurture the garden of her spirit and stand tall like the resilient trees that weathered fierce storms.
Inside her haven, the walls seemed to embrace her.
It was here, within her space, decorated in her alternative style and with bookshelves filled with well-loved novels and self-help paperbacks, that she found solace in her onward journey.
Running her fingers along the spines of the books, she saw each title as a marker of progress on her path.
She paused by the mantelpiece, gazing at a framed photograph that held bittersweet memories of her time in Wildstone.
An unexpected gift from Hope, it was one she treasured.
In it, she stood next to Caleb, his arm draped casually around her shoulders, and his smile was as natural and as warm as his gorgeous heart.
She looked genuinely happy, despite what had been going on at the time with the court case—he seemed to have that effect on her.
Their continuing closeness, even though they were miles apart, spoke volumes about the bond they’d formed.
And the same could be said for Hope—they made sure to talk at least every couple of days, even if it was only to say a quick hello.
‘I miss you so much, you wonderful man,’ she whispered into the quiet room. ‘I really wish you were here right now, so I could hug you nice and tight.’
A pang of longing squeezed her chest as she recalled their last embrace, where his reassuring arms were like a fortress, one that she yearned to return to, but couldn’t.
She was loving her independence, and her progress into self-love, but how much better life would be with Caleb by her side.
No matter how much she tried to move on, to accept they’d never be together, the ache for him remained, and it was a testament to a love embedded in strength, respect and absolute understanding.
‘Maybe one day,’ she murmured, allowing herself a sliver of hope that he might join her on this journey if by some miraculous turn of fate he could.
Stop torturing yourself with impossibilities, Love…
Turning away from the photograph, she headed into the kitchen, where she planned to make herself a couple of crumbed lamb chops and a salad. Which she did, followed by a glass of red and an early night with her book, The Handmaid’s Tale .
The next morning, after letting Ragnar outside, she stood waiting for the kettle to boil, her gaze lost in the horizon’s morning embrace, when a soft thud at her front doorstep drew her back to reality.
Tugging her robe closed, she hurried towards the front door and swung it open.
A small parcel lay there, unassuming yet somehow charged with a silent promise.
Her heart skipped a beat as she recognised the familiar handwriting on the front of the brown paper.
Caleb.
With trembling hands, she retrieved the package and sought refuge inside her living room.
Carefully unwrapping the layers of packaging, she revealed a collection of items that spoke of their shared history.
A book on edible gardens with a bookmark tucked between the pages.
A tin of homemade chocolate chip biscuits, undoubtedly crafted in his kitchen during one of his therapeutic baking sessions.
And there was a photo of Jet, his drooly ball in his chops and his adorable doggy eyes drawing her into the happy snap.
But it was the letter, neatly folded beneath it all, that captured her undivided attention.
Dear Nyah, I thought a bit of old-school lettering would be a nice surprise , it began, Caleb’s writing was infused with a warmth that seemed to radiate through her fingertips.
I can’t believe it’s been almost two months since you went back to Cairns.
He went on to tell her how he missed her, then wrote about the ever-changing skies above Wildstone, about how Hope and Vance were still playing silly buggers and how he wished they’d just get on and start telling each other how they really felt about each other, and then about the laughter that had filled the streets during the recent town festival.
Towards the end of the two-page letter, his tone shifted as he told her he hoped she was doing as well as she sounded when he spoke to her on the phone, and offering words of encouragement.
I’m here for you , he reassured her. No matter the distance. Caleb xx
As she read his heartfelt words for a second time, her heart soared.
Here was a man who’d seen her at her most vulnerable, who’d offered strength when hers faltered.
And now his unwavering support and companionship was like a lifeline she needed, almost as much as the earth needed rain.
His love for her, though unspoken, was a tangible thing, woven into his every sentence.
Emotions swirled within her, tugging at the very core of her being.
And amid it all, a decision took root. It was time to bridge the gap between them, to reach out and grasp the flickering hope that had sparked to life.
And she was going to do it in slow time, old style, just like he had.
With determination in her step, she made her way to her desk, pulled out her best stationery, the paper crisp and blank, waiting to be filled with the outpouring of her soul.
Her pen hovered over the page for a moment before finally making contact, guided by a newfound certainty.
Caleb , she wrote, her hand steady. Your words have travelled miles, but they’ve reached even further into my heart. I have loved you throughout my lifetime, from childhood friends to teenage lovers, to what exists within me now, a pure, infinite love that surpasses everything.
She poured all that she felt for him onto that page—her gratitude, her longing for things to have worked out differently, the shape of her love emerging through ink and intent.
But she held back from telling him how she dreamed of them living together, in Cairns, happily ever after.
She refused to put that kind of pressure on him.
And when the letter was finished and sealed with more than just a kiss, it wasn’t just a message, it was an extension of herself, ready to somehow, some way, traverse the distance that separated them, if destiny made it so.
Finally, with the envelope addressed and stamped, she paused for a moment, holding it close to her chest. This was more than mere correspondence.
It was a courageous step towards a future where the dark shadows of loss might be softened by the light of their enduring, everlasting love.
Now she just needed to find the courage to post it.