Who held him together when I wasn't here?
Who steadied him on this day?
Who reminded him he didn't have to carry this alone?
No one.
And the thought breaks me in a whole different way.
So I pull him even closer, arms wrapped around him like I can shield him from every memory, every hurt, every jagged piece of today.
"I've got you," I whisper again, softer this time. "You're not alone."
And slowly—slowly—his shaking eases, his breathing steadies, his grip loosens just enough for him to shift and rest his forehead against mine.
But he keeps holding me.
And I don't let go.
We're now sitting side-by-side on the floor, backs against his bed. He doesn't let go of my hand—not even for a second.
He threads our fingers tighter, then lays his other hand over ours and rubs his thumb slowly across my knuckles. It's absentminded, soft, like he's grounding himself with every pass of his thumb.
He tilts his head to look at me. I turn mine too.
His smile is small and broken at the edges, but grateful in a way that makes my chest pulse painfully.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"For being here today. For... staying. For giving me enough strength to get through it." His voice breaks a little. "You're the reason I kept it together for my mom and my sister. The reason I didn't fall apart."
"That's not true. You've always been strong—especially when it comes to your family."
"No. That's not true at all." He looks at me like he's letting me see something he's buried for years. "It was only ever easy to be strong because—you were always right beside me. Your presence... I don't know." He glances down, swallowing hard. "It was like you made the world bearable. Like I could breathe. Like nothing was too big or too scary because I knew you were there."
His eyes cloud, pain flickering there like something old and heavy rising from the bottom of him.
"And when you left..." His voice drops—hoarse, shaky. "God, babe. I had such a hard time surviving the last three anniversaries. I barely made it through them."
My heart stutters, a crack forming right down the middle.
"Especially after what happened to Sam," he murmurs.
"What do you mean?"
He doesn't answer right away.
He leans his head back against the mattress, eyes squeezing shut as if he's fighting fresh tears. His Adam's apple bobs hard.
"Zach?"
He sits up straighter, inhaling deeply—in the kind of way someone does when they're about to open a wound that never fully healed.
"Three years ago, just few months after you left," he finally says, voice cracking, "S-Sam had a... relapse."
My breath catches.
"Remember when we were little," he continues, staring at our joined hands. "Sam was always sick. Always in and out of the hospital. Always missing school?" He gives a hollow smile. "My parents told us it was just allergies, weak immunity, kid stuff. And we believed them."
