“I keep thinking,” he continues, “if I’d just stayed on the phone longer…if I’d gone home more…maybe?—”
I raise a hand gently. “Wilder.”
He stops.
“That kind of thinking feels productive,” I say carefully, “but it only turns grief into punishment.”
His eyes lift to mine. They’re raw now. Stripped of bravado.
“So what am I supposed to do?” he asks quietly. “Because everywhere I go, it’s loud. People want something from me. They expect me to be fine.”
I hold his gaze. “You don’t have to be fine in here.”
Something in his chest seems to cave at that. His shoulders slump, the fight finally draining out of him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “I don’t know how to not keep moving.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “Baseball taught you motion equals survival.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah. Guess it did.”
We sit there for a moment, the quiet no longer tense, just honest.
“I can’t promise this won’t hurt,” I tell him. “But I can promise you don’t have to carry it alone.”
He swallows hard.
“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Most people either avoid it or try to fix it.”
I offer a small smile. “Because this isn’t something to fix. It’s something to survive.”
His gaze lingers on me, searching, like he’s trying to understand how someone like me, steady, grounded, unafraid of his mess, exists in this space.
“Thank you,” he says finally. It’s quiet. Real.
I nod. “You’re welcome.”
As he leans back in the chair, exhaustion settling into his bones, I remind myself of the line I can’t cross.
I’m here to help him heal.
Not to catch feelings.
Not to let the intensity in his eyes pull me somewhere dangerous.
Still as I watch him breathe a little easier for the first time since he walked in, one undeniable truth settles in my chest.
This man isn’t just grieving.
He’s unraveling.
And somehow, I’m standing right at the center of it.
SIX
Wild
The quiet stretches too long.
