Page 46

46

MADISON

I don’t remember getting to my car.

One second, I’m in the bar, my heart being ripped straight out of my chest, and the next, I’m gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turn white.

My breath comes in short, uneven gasps, and I can’t tell if I’m freezing or burning alive.

I can still see him, Jaxon, sitting there, relaxed, smirking at something she said, letting another girl lean in close.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head like I can erase the image, but it’s burned into the back of my eyelids, replaying on a cruel, endless loop.

I should have expected this.

He told me he wasn’t going to chase me anymore.

I left. I let him go.

And now, he’s doing exactly what he should be doing—moving on.

I gasp in a shaky breath, resting my forehead against the steering wheel as nausea rolls through me.

Why does it hurt so much?

I did this.

I made my choice.

I told myself I was protecting him, that I was doing the right thing by walking away before I could hurt him worse.

But now, sitting here alone in this empty parking lot, my chest aching like something inside me has been irreversibly broken?—

I wonder if I was just protecting myself all along.

The what-ifs crash over me like a wave, relentless and suffocating.

What if I’d just stayed that night at the hospital?

What if I hadn’t pushed him away?

What if I’d told him I loved him when I had the chance?

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head.

It’s too late.

Isn’t it?

I sit there for what feels like forever, my body locked, my mind spiraling, before I finally inhale sharply, straighten in my seat, and start the engine.

I don’t know where I’m going at first. I just drive.

The city lights blur past me, a dull smear of neon against the dark, but I barely register them.

My hands shake against the wheel, my pulse pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat.

I try not to think, but it’s impossible, because every mile I put between myself and that bar, every streetlight I pass, the more suffocating the truth becomes.

I want him.

I love him.

I don’t know when it happened, or if it was always there, waiting for me to stop running long enough to see it.

But I do.

And now, I might have lost him.

The wind bites harder out here, sharp against my cheeks.

It carries the scent of winter—the kind that settles deep and doesn’t let go.

I used to love this season.

Now, it just feels empty.

I pull my coat tighter around me and step onto the gravel path, my boots crunching with each step.

I don’t know why I came here.

I was halfway to the highway before I even realized where I was going.

But now that I’m here, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

The headstone hasn’t changed.

Rebecca Blake

Beloved mother.

Fierce heart. Endless light.

I stare at the words someone else chose, words that feel too small for her.

My knees give out before I even notice, and suddenly, I’m sitting in the brittle grass, fingers digging into the cold earth like I’m trying to anchor myself to something—anything.

“I don’t even know how to talk to you,” I whisper.

“Isn’t that sad? I spent my whole life wanting your attention, and now, I don’t even know what to say.”

The silence feels heavy, like she’s holding her breath with me.

“I’m a mess, Mom. I—I miss you so much, it physically hurts sometimes. I hate you for leaving. I know it wasn’t your choice, but I still hate it. I hate that you didn’t get to see me grow up, that you didn’t get to see the man Jaxon grew up to be, either.” My throat catches on his name.

“He’s…he’s kind, patient. And God, he looks at me like I’m the whole damn world, his whole world, and it terrifies me.”

I swipe at my face with the sleeve of my coat, angry at myself for crying.

Again. “I push people away. That’s what I do. I was doing fine—fine enough, anyway—until he showed up. Until he started loving me like I wasn’t broken.”

A sharp sob slips out, catching me off guard.

I bury my face in my hands.

“He makes me want things I told myself I couldn’t have. A future. A home. A version of me who doesn’t flinch every time someone gets close. And I’m so scared, Mom. Because every time I get close to someone, they leave.”

I glance up at the sky, gray and endless above the trees.

“You left.” There’s no bitterness in it now—just truth.

I sit there for what feels like forever, letting myself break open but not fall apart.

The way I used to. The way I always do .

After a while, I speak again, quieter this time.

“I think I want to stop surviving. I think I want to try living. Even if it hurts.”

The wind rustles the bare branches above me like an answer, or maybe that’s just what I want to believe.

I place my hand against the headstone, fingers brushing cool stone.

“Help me be brave, okay?”

I stay like that for a while, just breathing.

Not breaking. Not unraveling.

Just…breathing.

It’s new.

To sit in the sadness without drowning in it.

To miss her and be angry and feel guilty and still want more for myself.

Maybe healing isn’t some huge moment.

Maybe it’s this.

Choosing not to run.

Choosing to sit still.

Choosing to stay, even when it hurts.

A breeze cuts across the back of my neck, and for a second, it almost feels like a hand.

Like her hand. Like she’s here.

Or maybe, I just need her to be.

Either way, I whisper, “Thank you,” and press my palm flat to the stone one last time.

When I stand, my legs are stiff, but there’s something steadier in my chest. Not peace.

Not yet. But maybe the beginning of it.

I turn toward the path, the weight still there but not dragging me under.

This time, I’m walking away—not because I’m avoiding the pain, but because I’m finally ready to face it.

Back behind the wheel of my car, I start to head back towards campus.

I blink rapidly against the burning in my eyes as I take a turn without thinking, my body leading me to the only place that’s ever given me peace.

The beach.

I park the car and just sit there, my fingers still curled around the steering wheel, my body locked tight.

The rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore is muted through the closed windows, but I can still feel it.

Was it ever the ocean that made me feel safe ?

Or was it the boy who used to stand beside me, holding my hand in the sand, telling me stories about all the places we’d go one day?

My throat tightens.

I lean my head back against the seat, staring up through the windshield at the stars scattered across the black sky.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear him.

"Come on, Mads. You really think we’re gonna stay in this town forever?"

"I don’t know. Maybe."

"Nah." He had grinned, nudging my shoulder.

"We’re gonna see the world. We’ll go to Italy first. You can eat all the pasta you want. Then, Greece, because you’re obsessed with the white houses on the cliffs. Then, maybe somewhere totally random. Like…Iceland."

"Iceland?" I had laughed.

"Why not? We can see the northern lights, just you and me."

"Just us."

My eyes snap open.

My chest heaves with every shallow breath, my mind racing with a hundred different emotions, a thousand regrets.

I should go home.

I should let this go.

But instead, I reach for the door handle with trembling fingers, stepping out into the cold night air.

The wind is sharp against my skin as I make my way down the familiar path, the sand cool beneath my bare feet when I slip off my shoes.

The ocean stretches out before me, vast and endless, the moonlight dancing on its surface like liquid silver.

I sink onto the rocks near the shore, pulling my knees to my chest, and stare at the waves, letting the sound fill the silence in my head.

This is the place that always made me feel calm, but tonight?

Tonight, it only makes me feel empty.

I think about my future .

What I want. Where I see myself in five years.

Ten.

And all I see is him.

Jaxon, with his steady hands and easy smile.

Jaxon, rolling his eyes at me when I steal his fries but never actually stopping me.

Jaxon, who held me even when I tried to push him away, who always came back—until I made it impossible for him to.

I let out a ragged breath, the weight of everything crashing down on me all at once.

I don’t want to live in this cycle anymore.

I don’t want to keep running.

For the first time in a long time, I want to fight.

My hands tremble as I pull my phone from my pocket.

I hesitate for only a second before I press call.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then, a soft, familiar voice filters through the speaker.

The scent of fresh linen and lavender fills the office, familiar and steady, like nothing has changed since the last time I sat in this chair.

There’s the same soft lighting, the same cozy throw blanket draped over the couch, the same small water bottles on the end table next to the tissue box.

Everything is the same.

Except me.

I’m different.

I don’t know if I’m better or worse, but I know I’m not the same girl who used to sit here, arms crossed, defenses high, refusing to let anyone dig too deep.

Dr. Martha, my therapist, watches me with patient eyes, her gaze steady, waiting.

She doesn’t rush me.

She never does.

But she also won’t let me run .

Not this time.

I pick at a loose thread on the sleeve of my hoodie, swallowing down the lump in my throat.

“I almost didn’t come,” I admit quietly, my voice rough from lack of sleep.

She offers me a small smile.

“But you did.”

I nod slowly, still fidgeting with my sleeve.

“Tell me why,” she says gently.

I inhale deeply, pressing my lips together before I force the words out.

“Because I’m tired of living in a constant state of fear that everyone and everything I care about will be taken away or leave me.”

Saying it out loud hurts, as if I’m yanking the bandage off an open wound and exposing everything underneath.

Dr. Martha leans forward slightly, her expression unreadable but still warm.

“And why are you are coming to that realization, Madison?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, like I can keep myself from breaking, but I already know the answer.

Him.

Jaxon Montgomery.

The boy who never stopped showing up, even when I shoved him away.

My best friend. The boy who loved me, even when I didn’t know how to love myself.

The boy I hurt.

I blink rapidly, staring down at my lap.

“I left him,” I whisper.

“I ran, just like I always do.”

Dr. Martha is quiet for a beat, then, “Why?”

I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head.

“Because it’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. I push people away before they can hurt me.”

“Before they can leave you.”

I flinch, my stomach twisting painfully.

Dr. Martha exhales, her tone softer now.

“You’ve been surviving for so long, Madison. You’ve always been looking for the exit, always keeping yourself one step ahead of the heartbreak. But tell me…has that ever worked and protected you?”

I stare at her, my throat tight.

Because the answer is no.

It hasn’t.

It didn’t keep me from losing my mother.

It didn’t stop my father from hurting me.

And it sure as hell didn’t keep me from falling in love with Jaxon Montgomery.

I drop my head into my hands, exhaling shakily.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

Dr. Martha doesn’t flinch at my broken confession.

She simply nods, like she expected this.

“That’s why you’re here.”

I clench my jaw, rubbing at my temples.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” she prompts, her voice unwavering.

My chest tightens. I open my mouth, then close it.

I know the answer, but admitting it feels impossible.

Still, when she doesn’t push, when she just lets me sit in silence, something in me finally cracks.

“I’m afraid…” I pause, my pulse hammering.

“I’m afraid if I let him love me, if I let myself have this, something will take him away from me, just like everything else.”

There it is.

The truth. Raw and bloody and sitting between us like an open wound.

Dr. Martha doesn’t look surprised.

She never does.

Instead, she leans forward just a little, her voice gentle but firm.

“Madison, you’ve built your life around protecting yourself from loss, but the reality is, you’re still losing. You lost Jaxon when you walked away, and now, you’re here, hurting, because leaving didn’t save you from the pain. It just gave you a different kind of heartbreak, one you controlled because you caused it yourself.”

I shift in the chair, the leather cool against the backs of my thighs despite the warmth of the office.

My nails dig into the sleeves of my hoodie, my fingers twisting the fabric like it’s the only thing anchoring me to reality.

Dr. Martha watches me with that calm, knowing expression, the one that makes it impossible to hide—even from myself.

She asks the question again, her voice soft, steady.

“What do you want, Madison?”

My throat tightens.

This is it.

This is the moment I have to stop lying—to her, to myself, to everyone.

I drop my gaze to my lap, where my hands grip my own sleeves so hard, my knuckles are white.

I try to unclench, to breathe, but my chest feels like it’s caving in, like the weight of my own truth is pressing down on me too hard, too fast.

What do I want?

I want him.

I want Jaxon Montgomery in every way a person can want someone else.

I want his stupid smirk when he catches me staring at him.

I want his dimple popping out when he teases me.

I want the way his voice gets all low and serious when he tells me he’s not going anywhere, even when I keep pushing him away.

I want the way he kisses me like I’m something precious, like I’m his—even when I’ve never given him a single good reason to believe that.

I want the way he looks at me—like I matter, like I could be more than the shattered pieces of my past.

Tears burn at the back of my eyes, but I blink hard, forcing them away.

Because the truth is, I don’t deserve him.

He gave me everything, every part of himself—his time, his love, his future.

He risked things for me, transferred schools for me, put his own goddamn dreams on the line because of me.

And I left.

I destroyed him, the way I destroy everything .

So what right do I have to want him?

I suck in a slow, unsteady breath, my chest aching with the weight of it all.

Finally, I force the words out, the ones I’ve been burying, the ones that feel like they might kill me.

“I want him,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

“I want Jaxon. But more than that, I want to be comfortable where I am, with who I am. I want to stop staying closed off. I want to have real friendships and relationships with others without always feeling so full of anxiety and always jumping to the worst possible scenario in my mind.”

Dr. Martha doesn’t react right away.

She just waits, giving me space to sit in my own words, to let them settle like something permanent.

And maybe that’s the thing.

Maybe it is permanent.

Maybe it always has been.

When she finally speaks, her voice is gentle.

“Then we need to figure out how you can stop that from happening.”

I let out a ragged breath, pressing my palms against my thighs.

How do I stop running?

It’s all I’ve ever known.

But I know this too—I ran from him, and I still ended up here, aching for him.

So maybe running isn’t the answer.

Maybe it never was.

Dr. Martha shifts slightly, her chair creaking.

“You said something earlier, Madison. You said you left him because you thought it would protect you.”

I nod slowly, my throat too tight to speak.

Now? Now, I don’t know if I can ever fix it.

Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them, hot and unforgiving.

Dr. Martha hands me a tissue, her expression patient.

I take it with shaking fingers, dabbing at my face.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” I admit, my voice raw.

“I don’t know how to stop ruining everything good in my life.”

She tilts her head slightly, her expression thoughtful.

“Let me ask you something, Madison. When you walked away from Jaxon, did it make you feel safe?”

The question punches straight through me, and I shake my head, my fingers curling around the tissue.

“No,” I whisper. “It made me feel empty.”

Dr. Martha leans forward just slightly, her tone soft but firm.

“Then maybe it’s time to try something new.”

A sharp breath shudders through me.

Something new.

Something terrifying.

Something like staying.

Something like fighting.

I wipe at my face, sniffling softly.

“What if I already ruined it?”

“What if you didn’t?” she counters.

“What if he’s waiting for you to figure it out?”

My chest tightens—I don’t know.

But maybe…

Maybe, I owe it to myself to find out.