But none of this is his fault.
None of it.
He just can't forgive himself.
I tighten my arms around him, pressing him closer, holding him like I can shield him from his own self-destruction.
His breath hitches again, and he fists his hands in the back of my shirt — not rough, just desperate.
"You can fall apart with me," I murmur, brushing my thumb along the nape of his neck.
"You're the one who told me I'm your strength—so let me be that strength now. Lean on me. Break on me if you have to. I'll hold your hand through every second of this, and I swear I'm not leaving your side. Not for anything. Not for anyone."
The second the words leave my mouth, something inside him cracks open completely, like a dam giving way to years of pressure.
His breath stutters—once, twice—and then he just... breaks.
His shoulders shake violently beneath my palms, his fingers digging half-moons into my back. A soft, strangled sound escapes him as he clings harder, his whole body trembling against mine like he's standing in the middle of a storm with nothing to hold on to—except me.
And I wrap my arms around him tighter, matching his desperation with my own.
For a long moment, he just holds on.
Like he needs the proof I'm real.
Like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, he'll crumble into pieces too small to gather back up.
Like letting go of me would be the same as letting go of hope.
So I hold him tighter.
Because the truth is... I'd been waiting for this moment.
I knew his strength wouldn't hold forever. You can only carry a collapsing universe on your shoulders for so long before gravity finally wins.
And I'd prayed—quietly, selfishly—that when he did break, I'd be here to catch him.
So he wouldn't have to fall alone.
Thank God I am.
Thank God that when his heart finally buckled under the weight of all that fear and pain, it buckled into me—not empty air, not cold tile,me.
Thank God I get to be the arms holding him up while the rest of his world comes crashing down.
I press my cheek to his temple, breathe him in, and hold him as tight as he needs.
Because right now, loving him feels like the only thing keeping us both standing.
Eventually, after what feels like forever standing there in the middle of the room with his face buried in my shoulder, Zach's breathing starts to settle. Not fully — not even close — but enough that when I guide him toward the small sofa pushed against the wall, he lets me.
He doesn't let go of me even for a second.
We sit down together, my back against the armrest, his head dropping onto my shoulder like gravity finally won. His arm stays looped around my waist, holding on in this quiet, desperate way that says he's still not okay — he's just trying to exist through the next breath.
For a long moment, we don't speak.
He just leans into me, exhausted. Wrung out. Eyes red and hollow in a way that punches straight through me.
