Page 36 of Jordan’s Breakthrough (Unexpected Love #3)

“It wasn’t. But she was great about it. Like, completely unfazed by everything. Even when I talked about the sex stuff.”

“Yeah, because it’s normal, ” Miles says, kindly but firmly. “Because what you’re experiencing isn’t only a you thing. Millions of people go through this too. You’re not broken.”

My chest aches. “I know. Or trying to, anyway.”

“Hey, trying counts,” Miles says. “You’re doing the hard part. You’re showing up for yourself.”

I stare at the cracked windshield of the car in front of me, thinking how it used to mirror my life.

For years, my father had made me believe the cracks weren’t real or that I could fix them by sheer will.

The truth is, I couldn’t. I needed help.

And even after I got help, it still wasn’t right. I had to keep asking, keep trying.

I just… didn’t know that. Not until Miles pointed it out.

“It feels weird,” I say after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“I first went to her when I was in crisis, you know? I was suicidal. But I’m not anymore. Not even close. So asking for help now, it just… I don’t know. Feels different.”

“You don’t need to be in crisis to ask for help.

Remember what I said about those who put off their medical care?

They wait until they feel more pain before they go in, when really, a little preventative care would have avoided the worst of it.

” His voice softens. “You’re there because you’re learning to honor your body and your mind.

You recognized a need, and you went to fill it.

That’s all, Jordan. That’s all it needs to be.

You have a right to feel better, even if it seems small.

And for the record? This isn’t small. Mental health is a big fucking deal, and on top of that, it’s hard to navigate.

But you deserve to feel joy and safety in your own mind, just like everyone else. You did the right thing.”

God, I love him. “You’re cute when you ramble. Have I told you that?”

He smirks. “It’s not rambling if it’s all true.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“So, what’s next? You going home now?”

I suck in a breath. “Yeah. Declan gave me the day off. I think he knew I’d be wrung out after this. I’m gonna pick up the new meds and then... I don’t know. Probably collapse with the cat and stare at the ceiling for a bit. Maybe watch more Arrow later.”

“I’m seriously so jealous.” He looks offscreen. “Lily, you need to step up on your cat duties! I need snuggles!”

“Don’t be too jealous. She’s not you,” I say, with a wink.

Miles smiles.

“I’ll call you later?”

“You better. I love you.”

“I love you too, Miles.”

****

Once I’m home, I head straight for my bedroom, craving the comfort of soft blankets and a quiet space to zone out. But I pause in the entrance.

The room looks different somehow. Louder. The clothes on the floor seem to scream at me, the dust on the nightstand taunts me, and the half-empty water glass is reminding me it’s been there for days.

How could I let it get this far?

Pulling off my shirt, I fold it to rest on top of the dresser instead of tossing it on the floor, but my hand hovers there, like it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. I need to do more.

With a sigh, I pick up the glass and take it to the kitchen.

On the way back, I grab the laundry basket and start tossing clothes in.

Slowly. Deliberately, like I’m relearning how.

After a few minutes, a rhythm kicks in. I hit the button on my stereo and crank the music, then I reach for the T-shirts I’d thrown in a corner.

Then a sock. My jeans. Another sock. I strip the bed next, pillowcases crumpling in my fists.

The stale smell of sweat clings to the sheets, making me cringe.

After starting a load of laundry, I wipe down the nightstand and clear out the empty pill bottles and wad of used tissues I don’t remember leaving there.

Then I crack the window to let in some air, moving right along to clean off my dresser.

It’s half-buried under notebooks, mail, receipts, and too many plants.

I laugh. Too many? Don’t be ridiculous, Jordan.

I stack the papers and toss all the old bills. My mind is quieter than it’s been in weeks, maybe months. Like all the noise has been stored in these piles, waiting to be cleared out. All I needed was a nudge to do it.

Hauling my second bag out to the hall, I return with a fresh one, airing it open. That’s when I see it.

A thick stack of printed pages, held together with a binder clip. My name is in the header, and the words below that blur for a second before snapping back into focus.

THE DIVIDED SKY: Draft 2 .

My heart stops, and an ache rises so fast and sharp in my chest that I suck in a breath. Charlie. My half-human, half-alien, who was hell-bent on building a better world for his colony, even if it destroyed him. God, I loved him. I still do.

I miss him.

Under the title are the words scrawled in messy, illegible handwriting: Fucking FINALLY!

I remember writing that. I remember the joy and elation of finally seeing my story in print. The pride. But the words are ironic. Finally. As if Two-Years Ago Me actually believed I’d be finished with Charlie’s story by now.

I sit down with the thick stack on my lap, soaking in Charlie’s presence like I’m visiting an old friend.

Red ink bleeds across every page in frantic marks.

Circles, slashes, half-legible comments from myself daring to believe in my success.

I’d even scrawled “Killer description!” in one corner, like I couldn’t believe I wrote that.

I read the paragraph it’s pointing to and grin. It really is badass.

One comment catches my eye: Raise the stakes here. What does Charlie stand to lose?

I hadn’t known the answer then, but I do now. Everything.

Charlie had everything to lose.

With a rush, the air in the room changes. My chest tightens, and suddenly I see it. All of it. This story knew me before I knew myself.

Charlie was me. Not just a stand-in, not just a character. He was me. He carried my pain and wore my grief like armor. It’s uncanny. The isolation, the unbearable loss, the quiet, even the relentless war inside his own mind. It’s me.

Every word, every scene, I’d lived it.

Charlie’s father was as cold and dismissive as my own, shrugging off Charlie’s pain like it was just another inconvenience. He told him to be stronger and to turn off his emotions. Told him he shouldn’t feel what he feels.

Charlie’s human brother was in captivity too. His alien sister missing on another planet. Just like my own siblings.

I’d written this so long ago, yet it feels as if it were yesterday. I’d poured my soul into these pages. Bled into them. Screamed for help with a pen in my hand and never even realized what I was doing.

I thought I was writing fiction. I thought I was escaping. But no. I was documenting my own haunted, desperate spiral in the darkness.

I continue skimming until I find it—right near the end of Book Two. The last paragraph I ever wrote.

Charlie couldn’t carry it anymore. He was ready to give in. To surrender. He was letting go. Of everything.

It hits me like a knife to the heart, sending me back in time until my hands shake. For a long moment, it’s as if I’m not only crafting these words but holding the gun, and my heart shatters.

How did I not see it before? It’s unmistakable how much I’d put myself into my character.

Charlie believed he had nothing left. Convinced himself that the army, his friends, and even his family had turned their backs on him or disappeared.

The pressure of the war was too much. He had no hope.

No anchors to get him through the worst battle of his life.

Except... he did.

Charlie had a love interest, Volka, who was willing to give up her life to fight for his cause. And he even had two friends who kept showing up. He just couldn’t see it, blinded by what was happening in the world around him.

I was blinded too, by grief. The depth of it is hitting me all over again, threatening to swallow me whole. I set the pages aside, unsure of what to do.

I’d written that paragraph when I didn’t just want to quit the story, I wanted to quit everything . I’d given up, buried my will to live just as Charlie had buried his. And instead of crawling out, I’d hidden the pages in the corner, like I was trying to smother Charlie’s voice. Like I was afraid.

Maybe deep down I knew he was leading me to the end.

I was weeks away from pulling the trigger to end my life.

I had a date in mind. A plan. Even the means.

But then something shifted inside me, fragile and half-alive, but it was there.

It reawakened. The emptiness became… something else. I found a will to keep going.

I just didn’t realize I hadn’t yet moved. I was stuck. Dormant. My will to live was shallow and barely surviving. Like a plant taking root in a sidewalk.

It’s no wonder I haven’t been able to finish his story. I wasn’t ready yet. I had to help myself first. I see that now.

I brush a hand over the paper, feeling deeply connected to the story again. Charlie will get his happy ending someday, but first I need to get mine. It’ll be a battle ahead, but I’m determined to get through it.

I set the manuscript on the edge of my dresser where I can see it, unburied. Hopefully it’ll be an anchor in the weeks to come.

When I’m ready, Charlie and I will try again.