Page 76 of My Best Friend Is Broken

When he emerges fifteen minutes later, his hair is damp and he’s wearing soft clothes. My old fake universityhoodie again and a pair of joggers that are still slightly too big for him. But instead of retreating to his room, he hovers in the doorway of the living room, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“You okay?” I ask from my spot on the sofa.

“Can I just... be in here with you?”

The question is so tentative, so careful, like he’s afraid I might say no or ask him to explain himself.

“Of course. Always.” I pat the cushion beside me. “Come here.”

He crosses the room quickly, almost desperately, and settles onto the sofa close enough that our legs are touching. But he’s still tense, still radiating that jumpy, on-edge energy that suggests his mind is racing with thoughts he can’t quite control.

I don’t try to force conversation. Sometimes the worst thing you can do when someone is spiraling is demand they explain themselves. Instead, I just turn on the TV and find something mindless to watch. A nature documentary about ocean life, all soothing narration and beautiful underwater footage.

For the first twenty minutes, Liam sits rigid beside me, his hands clenched in his lap, his breathing slightly too fast. He flinches at small sounds, the building settling, a car horn from the street below, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Each tiny noise sets his shoulders higher, his jaw tighter.

“Bad day?” I ask eventually, keeping my voice low and calm.

He nods without looking at me.

“Want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

“That’s okay.”

I reach over slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he needs to, and rest my hand on his knee. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean slightly into the touch, like he’s been waiting for permission to accept comfort.

“Sometimes,” I say quietly, “bad days just happen. There’s no reason, no trigger, no specific thing that caused it. Your brain just decides today is going to be hard, and you have to ride it out.”

“I hate it,” he whispers. “I hate that I can’t control it. That I can wake up fine and by afternoon I’m falling apart for no reason.”

“I know. But it’s not your fault. Mental health doesn’t work on a schedule or follow logical patterns. Sometimes you just have bad days, and that’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay.”

“I know that too.”

Liam sighs heavily. “When did you get so clever?”

I force a grin onto my face. “Excuse me? Who used to do all your homework for you?”

The fact that I’ve been frantically reading everything I can find on PTSD and trauma, is a secret I’m taking to the grave. As is the fact that I’ve been pestering his therapist for tips on how to handle things.

Liam smiles at my lame attempt at humor, but his heart is clearly not in it. The smile never reaches his eyes. Instead, he looks away and stares at the TV.

The documentary drones on about the mating habits of seahorses, but neither of us is really watching. I can feel Liam’s attention focused entirely inward, on the storm ofanxiety and fear and whatever else is churning through his mind.

“Come here,” I say, shifting to make room and opening my arms in invitation.

For a moment, he just stares at me, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to accept what I’m offering. Then he moves, curling into my side with his head on my chest, and I wrap my arms around him firmly, securely, the kind of hold that saysI’ve got youwithout needing words.

He lets out a shaky breath, and I feel some of the tension start to drain from his body. Not all of it. The anxiety is still there, still making his muscles tight and his breathing uneven. But enough that he’s no longer vibrating with barely contained panic.

“You’re safe,” I murmur into his hair. “Right here, right now, you’re safe. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Actually, I can. You’ve got a scary mafia boyfriend now, remember? Anyone who wants to hurt you has to go through me first, and I’m very good at my job.”