But maybe this was the warning. The only one I would ever get.
I should’ve left after the funeral. I told myself I would. That I’d show up, pay my respects, and disappear. But I hadn’t. I stayed—for them, for him. Even now, clutching the last piece of her I had left, I wasn’t thinking of leaving. I was thinking of going back. Back to Elliot. Back to the quiet, broken fury in his eyes. Back to the chaos I couldn’t resist.
Because something in him pulled me like a riptide. Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it never would be. But it was something close. Something dangerous. Something I couldn’t name without bleeding for it.
Because love and ruin had always lived side by side. And God help me, I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
I stared out at the ocean long after that, letting the wind rip through me like it might take something with it. Let the salt sting my skin like penance. Somewhere behind me, the world kept turning—but out here on the edge, it felt like it had stopped.
Elliot was the storm I couldn’t outrun. And maybe I was already too far gone to save myself.
But maybe—just maybe—I could save him.
Or I’d drown trying.
I couldn’t saywhat drew me to his room when I finally made it back to the house. Maybe it was the letter, her words still whispering in my ear. Maybe it was the look in Elliot’s eyes yesterday—vacant and empty, like something had already left.
Maybe it was that quiet, brutal thing he said the other day,I feel like I’m disappearing.That had stuck in my chest like a nail.
But my feet led me there as though it was the only option I had left. Like some part of me already knew I was too late to keep pretending everything was fine.
His room was dark, even in the middle of the day. Curtains shut, blinds lowered, like he was trying to bury himself. Trying to disappear in real time. The kind of darkness that doesn’t ask for comfort. The kind that says,Stay out.
Dirty clothes were strewn around the hamper. Half-empty coffee cups crowded the nightstand beside a nest of balled-up tissues and spoons, too many spoons. I tried not to think about why.
A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. At least he was drinking something. Showering, maybe? The towel on the floor was still damp. But the room looked like a war zone—and Elliott looked like he’d lost.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I pulled the blanket back onto the bed, straightened the pillows. Just something to keep my hands busy.
That’s when I saw it. A little black journal half-tucked beneath the pillow, like a secret waiting to be forgotten. Or maybe waiting to be found. I shouldn’t have opened it. I knew that. But I also knew that if I didn’t, something in me would never settle.
Just one page. Just one line.
No one would notice if I stopped breathing.
The air cracked around me. My breath caught like I’d been punched. The words shattered something in me I didn’t realize was still fragile. I read it again, and then I wished I hadn’t.
I slammed the journal shut like it had scorched me, but it was too late. The sentence had already burrowed under my skin like a splinter of glass, and it wouldn’t come loose.
He wrote that.
He believed that.
God, Elliot.
I sank down on the edge of his bed, elbows digging into my knees, chest caving inward. The guilt hit like a wave of concrete. How long had he been carrying this? And how the fuck had I not seen it? I thought I knew the depth of his pain… It was clear I’d barely scratched the surface.
He apologized for existing like it was second nature. For taking up space. For breathing too loud. For being.
After clearing the nightstand and loading it all in the dishwasher, I sat on the couch, just slumped there with my knees drawn up and my jacket over my head like that might keep me from falling apart. I debated going to find David to talk to him, but it felt like a thankless task. His paternal instincts had abandoned him.
For hours I just listened. Listened for any sound at all—his footsteps, his voice but there was nothing. The silence was worse than the waiting. The silence was terrifying.
At some point, I closed my eyes, but I never slept. Couldn’t. That one sentence kept pulsing behind my eyelids like a warning I could never outrun. I didn’t cross a line reading that journal. I fell over it. And I didn’t care. I’d gladly burn for it, if it meant keeping him alive.
That was the moment something in me rearranged itself. Not gently. Not cleanly.
The rules I’d lived by—the careful distance, the quiet restraint, the unspoken lines I never crossed—they all felt suddenly smaller than what was sitting in front of me. Smallerthan that sentence. Smaller than the idea of him not being here anymore.
