Page 89 of Hunter

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

“And how are you handling that now?”

I stare at my hands. “I’m… trying to give him space. I haven’t texted him since before I started seeing you. I’m trying to respect what he asked for. But it’s hard. Really fucking hard. I miss him. I think about him all the time. Sometimes I still want to show up at his place, even when I know I shouldn’t.”

Dr. Middleton nods slowly, watching me.

“Obsession can feel a lot like love, especially when it’s tied to guilt and fear of abandonment,” he says. “But from what you’ve described… the way you talk about him, the way he made you want to be better… I think your feelings for Charlie might actually be genuine. That doesn’t make them healthy right now. But it does mean they’re worth examining, not just dismissing as limerence or fixation.”

I look up at him, surprised.

“You think it’s real?”

“I think it could be,” he says carefully. “But real love doesn’t look like showing up drunk at someone’s door or pinning them down when they’re not ready. If your feelings for Charlie are genuine, then the best thing you can do for him—and for yourself—is to keep doing this work. Get stable. Stay sober. Learn how to love without possession or control.”

He leans forward slightly.

“You’ve made real progress in a short time, Hunter. Use those feelings as motivation to keep getting better. If it’s meant to be, he’ll still be there when you’re ready. And if he’s not…you’ll still be a healthier version of yourself.”

When I leave his office, I feel lighter than I have in a year, maybe longer.

The air outside has that first bite of fall to it. Leaves crunch under my boots as I walk, gold and red scattered across the sidewalk like someone spilled paint. For the first time in weeks, my head feels…quieter. Not silent. Robby’s still there, but he’s not screaming anymore. He’s just a low hum in the background, easy to ignore.

I take the long way home, letting the cool air clear the last fog from my brain. I’m thinking about texting Charlie—not tonight, but soon. Something that doesn’t demand anything from him. Just…I’m trying, and I miss him.

Then I see it.

An art gallery. The big windows are lit up, and inside, hanging on the white walls, are paintings…all featuring…me in some way.

I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk. My breath catches so hard it hurts.

There are at least two dozen pieces. Charcoal sketches. Oil paintings. Watercolors. Some small and intimate, some large and raw. All of me.

I push open the door before I can think better of it. The bell above it jingles softly.

The woman behind the desk looks up and smiles politely, then her expression shifts as she really sees me. Recognition flickers across her face.

“You’re him,” she says quietly, almost reverent. “The man in the paintings.”

I can’t speak. I just walk slowly through the gallery, eyes moving from piece to piece like a starving man at a feast.

Charlie saw all of it. The good. The ugly. The broken. He saw me. Really saw me. Even from that very first meeting in group.

My eyes sting. I have to blink hard to keep it together.

The gallery owner comes to stand beside me, arms loosely crossed.

“He poured his heart into these,” she says gently. “You can feel it in every stroke. Whoever this man is…” she pauses and nods at the pictures of me. “He was loved very deeply.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat.

“Yeah,” I whisper, voice rough. “He was.”

She gives me a small, understanding smile and steps away to give me space.

I stand there for a long time, surrounded by every version of myself Charlie ever saw. The man I was the first time he saw me. The man I failed to be. The man I’m still trying to become. All of it.

I need to see him.