Her eyes flick to mine, sharp with the kind of pain that comes from knowing too much. “No. Because you’re shutting down. Again.”
I look away.
For years after Stella died, I blamed them for everything.
Her downfall. Her death. My pain.
The way they couldn’t even say her name out loud, like grief might crack the walls if we let it breathe.
So I cut them out.
I ran.
I told myself they’d failed her, because it was easier than admitting I’d failed too. That I’d refused to face it. That I let my regret fester into resentment and wore it like armor.
It wasn’t until the MRI tech made a soft noise behind the glass and I saw my mother’s face crumple beside me that I realized how wrong I’d been.
They hadn’t stopped loving me.
I’d just stopped letting them.
So when they offered to help—to let me stay with them, to cook, to sit with me in waiting rooms that smelled like bleach and dying hope—I let them.
Because maybe I wasn’t the only one who needed a second chance.
My mother sighs, brushing a speck of dust off her jeans. “We went with you to every appointment. We sat through every scan, Chase. I heard the surgeonsay it. I know what you’re facing. And I know you think pushing people away makes it easier.”
“It does,” I mutter.
“It doesn’t,” Dad cuts in, leaning against a wall, his arms folded. “It just makes it quieter. More lonely.”
I clench my jaw, something hot and sour building in my throat. I don’t want to do this. Not now, not when everything inside me is already hanging by a thread.
“I’m not ready,” I admit, barely audible.
“I know.” Mom slides her hand over mine. “But when the time comes and you finally decide you don’t want to go through this alone, please let that girl of yours know. She deserves more than silence.”
I don’t respond. Just stare straight ahead.
Because I’m not sure I deserve her anymore.
And I’m even less sure I ever did.
My father stands near the window, staring out at the swaying tree branches that dance to a silent song. When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, matter-of-fact. “Thing about mistakes,” he says, still not looking at me, “you don’t always realize you’re making one until it’s already done. Until the damage is sitting in the room with you.”
My heart clenches.
Throat closes.
Palms start to sweat.
All the best mistakes have names.
Example number one: Billy Fritz.
He was the bully I beat the crap out of in eighth grade after he shoved Stella off the monkey bars and she broke her arm.
An immediate suspension followed, then a grounding that bled into summer, keeping me isolated in my bedroom with nothing but brainless cartoons and my guitar.
