"I'm just?—"
"I saiddon't,Jackson."
She walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing here with a wet pot and a chest full of words I can't say.
I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Then the guest room door closing.
Max appears at my feet, meowing.
"Yeah," I tell him. "I know."
I put the pot away and head downstairs to my room, sit on the edge of my bed, and stare at the wall.
I saw her scars. She knows I saw them. And neither of us knows what to do with that information.
The thing is, I've been in high-pressure situations my entire life. Hockey teaches you how to make split-second decisions, how to read a play before it develops, and how to anticipate what's coming next. I've captained teams through playoffs, made calls that determined whether we won or lost, and carried the weight of expectations from coaches, teammates, and fans.
But this?This is different.
There's no playbook for watching someone you care about slowly self-destruct. No drill to practice, no game footage to review, no coach yelling instructions from the bench.
I can't fix this with better positioning or sharper passes. Can't win this by outworking the opposition.
And that's what's killing me. That feeling of complete helplessness while someone I've known most of my life cuts herself in the room above mine, and I have no idea how to stop it.
I pull out my phone and open a new search tab, then close it. I've already read enough articles about self-harm and trauma to know that confronting her directly could make things worse. That she needs professional help, not some hockey player who thinks he can solve everything through sheer determination.
But doing nothing isn't an option either.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jenkins about tomorrow's practice schedule. I respond automatically, then toss the phone onto my nightstand.
The house is quiet now. Emma's probably reading to Ethan before bed. Chase is still watching footage, analyzing plays with the same focus he brings to everything. And Maya's upstairs in that guest room, probably sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering how much I saw, how much I know.
I think about going up there. Knocking on her door. Telling her I know she's not okay and that's fine, that she doesn't have to be okay, that I'm here regardless.
But she told me not to. Said it as clearly as anyone's ever said anything.
So I respect that boundary, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, anything, to help.
I change into sweats and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The basement's always been my space—separate from the rest of the house, quiet, mine. Right now, it feels like a cage.
Above me, I hear footsteps. Maya is moving around. The sound of water running in the bathroom. A door closing.
I wonder if she's looking at her wrists right now. If she's thinking about adding new scars to the collection. If she's pulled out that journal and is writing more of those dark thoughts that made me throw up in the kitchen sink.
My chest tightens.
I can't lose her. Can't watch her disappear. Can't stand by while she cuts herself and plans ways to die.
But I also can't tell her I read her journal, can't confront her directly, can't force her to accept help she's not ready for.
So what the fuck do I do?
The question sits heavy in my chest, unanswered. Because I don't know. I don’t know how to navigate this without making everything worse.
All I know is that Maya's hurting, that she's been carrying this weight alone for months, and that tonight at dinner she looked at me like she knew I'd seen too much.
Like she was waiting for me to confirm her worst fears about herself—that she's too damaged, too broken, too much to handle.
