“And that,” she replied, “is a very hopeful place to be.”
That afternoon, as I walked back from Nora’s office with my coat unbuttoned, the cold sharp enough to keep me in the moment, in my body. My thoughts were quieter than they had been in weeks—not gone, just... less frantic. Like something inside me had finally been named, and because of that, I wasn’t clawing so hard anymore.
When I got back to Mia’s, the place was empty, but alive in that low, comforting way. Voices drifted from the kitchen where someone had left the radio on for the rescue Dix brought home last week. The muted thud of paws let me know the little black thing had heard me come in.
I kicked off my shoes and put them on the top of the unit so Jeckel—aptly named—didn’t chew them up like Drax’s boots. In the kitchen I went straight for the kettle as Jeckel yapped and nipped at my ankles only shutting up when I picked him up for a quick hug.
With him satisfied I had time to search the cupboards for the camomile I’d stashed in there the other day while the kettle boiled. Anthony used to make it for me on nights when my hands shook too badly to trust myself with anything too hot. He’d say nothing, just press the mug into my palms like it was obvious I deserved comfort. Like it wasn’t something I had to earn.
It was strange how all these little things were coming back to me now we weren’t with each other twenty-four-seven. Like timeand distance made me appreciate every little, profound thing he did for me in an entirely new way.
The kettle clicked off. I poured the water slowly, watching the tea bloom, breathing in the soft, grassy scent. My chest tightened—not in pain, but in that aching, almost-hopeful way that came when I let myself miss him without punishing myself for it.
I carried the mug to my temporary room and sat cross-legged on the bed. Then reached for my journal. The new one. The one Anthony had bought for me. It was a surprise when it arrived on the doorstep the other week. It had a bright pink spine. Loud in a way that felt intentional. Hope, he’d called it, a little sheepishly when I spoke to him on the phone later that day.
I ran my thumb along the edge of the page before opening it. The paper smelled clean. Untouched. Like endless possibilities. I wrote slowly, carefully, like if I rushed the words they might slip away.
I keep thinking healing is supposed to feel like relief. Like a finish line. But today it felt more like learning how to stand without bracing for impact.
I paused, listening to the house settle around me. The clink of the dishwasher meant someone else was now here. A muffled argument from the radio. Normal life happening close enough that I didn’t feel exiled from it. Not anymore.
Anthony isn’t my dad. And I’m not trying to make him one. He’s a choice. And choosing to be held doesn’t make me weak. It makes me honest.
My hand shook, just a little more.
Maybe I didn’t want to die. Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone in the dark anymore.
I closed the journal before the feeling could tip into something sharper. Pressed my palm flat against the cover like a vow. Took a sip of tea and let it ground me.
The sound my phone made when it vibrated on the glass-top side table that served as my makeshift nightstand could have woken the dead. I quickly set my drink down, and for a second, I couldn’t move. My heart did that small, traitorous leap it always did when his name appeared.
“Hey,” I said, my voice softer than I’d planned.
“Hey,” he replied. He sounded steadier than the last time we talked. Tired, maybe—but anchored. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No.” I cleared my throat. “I just got back from therapy.”
There was a quiet sound on the other end, like a smile he didn’t need to show. “How was it?”
“Hard,” I admitted. “But… the kind of hard that settles later. Like it’s doing something.”
“I’m really glad,” he said. Then he hesitated, and I knew something was coming. Anthony always took a breath before saying things that mattered. “I wanted to tell you something.”
I drew my knees closer to my chest. “Okay.”
“I started volunteering,” he said. “At a crisis line. Nights, mostly.”
The words landed gently, but they carried weight. “Oh,” I breathed.
“I talked to my therapist about learning how to sit with people’s pain without trying to fix it,” he continued. “About notrunning from it. Or from myself.” A beat passed. “It felt like a good place to start.”
Something warm and fierce bloomed in my chest. “That makes sense,” I said. “That sounds like you.”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Terrifying and right at the same time.”
“I’m proud of you,” I said, before I could overthink it and make this exchange more complicated than it needed to be.
The line went still. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. “That means more than you know.”
