Page 28 of The Silence Between

EPILOGUE

FIVE YEARS LATER

T he spring sunshine spilled across the university quad, warming the black polyester of my graduation gown as I stood among my fellow graduates. Five years ago, I couldn't have imagined this moment. Hell, five years ago, I was standing on a bridge ready to end it all. Now I was here, diploma within reach, surrounded by people who'd fought just as hard for their degrees, though probably with fewer detours through psychiatric hospitals and custody courts.

I shifted my weight, scanning the crowd for my family. There, three rows back, right section. Sophie, now eighteen and radiating a confident poise she'd grown into, held a sign decorated with what had to be a hundred glittery stars. Next to her, Diego, twenty-one and carrying himself with the easy confidence of a young man coming into his own, pretended to be embarrassed by his sister's enthusiasm but couldn't quite hide his smile. Mari had flown in from her job at a tech startup, looking every bit the accomplished professional at twenty-six. And Ethan, my constant through all of this, beaming with the kind of pride that made my chest ache in the best possible way.

My family. My people. The ones who'd seen me at my absolute worst and somehow loved me anyway.

“Leo Reyes,” the dean called, my name echoing through the speakers.

The crowd noise briefly separated into distinct sounds: Sophie's unmistakable “Woohoo!” cutting through the air, Diego's deep voice joining in, Mari's elegant whistle (a skill she'd perfected as a child to call us home for dinner), and Ethan's enthusiastic applause rising above the polite pattering around him.

As I walked across the stage and accepted my diploma, I caught sight of my wrist, the semicolon tattoo visible beneath my sleeve. Once a reminder to simply continue, to not end the sentence of my life. Now a symbol of everything that had come after: not just survival, but revision. Not just continuing, but changing direction. Not just existing, but living.

I'd graduated. With honors. With a future. With possibility stretching out before me like an open road.

And I wasn't traveling it alone.

When people asked why I'd transferred from Business Administration to English Literature halfway through college, I usually gave them the practical answer: better job prospects in publishing and education than I'd initially thought, more aligned with my work at the bookstore. The real answer was more complicated. Business had been the safe choice, the responsible one for someone with three dependents and mounting bills. Literature had been the brave choice, the healing one. The day I officially changed my major, Ethan had taken me out for dinner, raising a glass to what he called “choosing your own story.” It had felt terrifying and exactly right, like jumping into deep water and finding I could swim after all.

* * *

“That box goes in the office,” I called to Diego as he hauled yet another carton of books through the front door. “The one labeled 'Literature,' not 'Business.'”

“They're all books,” he grumbled, but headed in the right direction anyway. “Why do you need so many when everything's digital now?”

“Says the guy with an entire box just for gaming equipment,” I shot back, arranging our meager collection of cookbooks on a kitchen shelf.

The house wasn't much, a modest three-bedroom rental with a small yard and a covered back porch, but it was ours. Or it would be, once we finished moving in. After five years of maintaining separate households, carefully building our relationship while I focused on recovery and finishing my degree, Ethan and I had finally decided to take the next step. The timing worked perfectly, with Diego finishing his junior year of college and Sophie preparing for her freshman year. A new chapter for all of us.

From the back bedroom came the sound of Sophie's playlist, indie rock with vocals that reminded me of early 2000s bands, as she methodically organized her space. Mari moved between the kitchen and living room, organizing dishes and arranging furniture with the casual competence of someone who'd been living independently for years. When had my little sister become this capable adult with opinions on mortgage rates and retirement plans?

“Where do you want the desk?” Ethan asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. Even after all these years, the sight of him still caught me off guard sometimes: the way sunlight played across his features, the laugh lines that had deepened around his eyes, the absolute steadiness he brought to every situation.

“Against the window,” I decided. “We'll need the light.”

He nodded and disappeared back outside to where the rented moving truck sat in the driveway. We'd mapped out a shared office space, two desks positioned so we could work separately but together: his lesson plans and my writing, his academic research and my bookstore inventory management, his practical work and my creative projects somehow coexisting in perfect, messy harmony.

Later, when the main wave of moving had subsided and everyone was occupied with their own spaces, I found myself alone in that office. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Our books mingled on the shelves: his literary criticism alongside my poetry collections, his educational theory near my business management texts, a physical manifestation of our lives intertwining after years of careful, intentional growth.

The small collection of business textbooks from my first two years of college sat on the bottom shelf, a reminder of the path not taken. I didn't regret the switch to English Literature, not for a second. That decision had opened doors I hadn't known existed, connecting me to professors who recognized something in my writing and pushed me to dig deeper. My thesis on psychological themes in contemporary fiction had been published in a respected literary journal, something I couldn't have imagined when I was slogging through accounting principles and marketing strategies.

It hadn't been easy, these five years. Recovery wasn't a straight line but a winding, sometimes backtracking path. There had been setbacks: panic attacks after particularly stressful weeks, nights when the old guilt would resurface and I'd find myself texting my siblings just to make sure they were okay, moments when the weight of responsibility still threatened to drag me under. But I'd learned to recognize the signs, to reach for help before I shattered, to accept support as strength rather than weakness.

And through it all, Ethan had been there, not as a savior or a solution, but as a partner. Steady, patient, and human in his own struggles. We'd built this life brick by brick, test by test, therapy session by therapy session, until we'd created something neither of us could have imagined that night on the bridge.

“Found you,” Ethan said from the doorway, interrupting my thoughts. “Hiding from the chaos?”

“Just taking it all in,” I replied, gesturing to the room around us. “Hard to believe we're really doing this.”

He crossed to stand beside me, our shoulders touching in that comfortable way that had become second nature. “Having second thoughts?”

“Not even one,” I said, and meant it. “You?”

“Only about letting Sophie claim the largest bedroom. I'm pretty sure her argument about 'needing creative space for her gap year projects' was just a clever negotiation tactic.”

I laughed, the sound echoing in the half-empty room. “You might be right about that.”

His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. “We did good, Leo. Look how far we've come.”

I squeezed his hand, the gratitude so intense it almost hurt. “We did, didn't we?”

Outside, Sophie shouted something about ordering food delivery, her voice now carrying the confident timbre of a young adult rather than a child's plea. Diego's deeper voice responded with restaurant suggestions, while Mari's practical solution to split the difference floated through the open windows. The sounds of home, of family, of life continuing in all its beautiful, messy glory.

I thought briefly about the phone call I'd received last month from a cousin in Arizona. Gloria and Miguel had finally settled there after years of drifting between relatives and short-term rentals. The overdose that had nearly killed her five years ago had eventually led to a court-mandated rehab program after her third drug-related arrest. According to my cousin, she was two years sober now, working at a gas station, attending meetings, and keeping to herself. Miguel had followed her there, seemingly permanently this time. The news had brought a strange mix of relief and detachment. I was glad she was alive, glad she was sober, but the distance between us felt right. Some bridges couldn't be rebuilt, and some didn't need to be. We were both better off on our separate shores.

* * *

“And so the semicolon represents not just grammatical function but psychological meaning: the deliberate choice to continue a sentence that could have ended, to revise rather than conclude, to persist with purpose rather than simply endure.”

I closed the book, looking out at the faces gathered in Second Chapter Bookstore. Eleanor sat in the front row, her silver hair elegantly coiffed despite her advanced age, her eyes as sharp as ever. Beside her, my former professors nodded with collegial approval. Scattered throughout the audience were faces I recognized from various chapters of my life: therapy group members who'd become friends, fellow students from my degree program, bookstore regulars who'd watched my journey from employee to manager to published author.

And of course, my family. Mari taking notes on her tablet, perhaps gathering ideas for the communications strategy she managed at work. Diego looking more comfortable than I expected in a button-down shirt, occasionally checking his phone but definitely present. Sophie recording parts of the reading on her phone, her critical arts student eye evaluating the presentation as much as the content. Ethan standing at the back, giving me space to shine while still providing the anchor of his presence.

“I'll take questions now,” I said, setting my essay collection on the podium.

Hands rose throughout the room. I called on an older woman near the back.

“Your essays blend literary analysis with personal narrative so seamlessly,” she said. “Was that a deliberate choice or did it evolve naturally as you wrote?”

“Both, I think,” I answered. “I started with more academic analysis, but my professor, who's here tonight, actually, challenged me to find the personal connection to the material. Once I allowed myself to see how literary theory had literally saved my life, the essays took on a different dimension.”

The questions continued: about my writing process, about future projects, about balancing creative work with my role at the bookstore. I answered each one honestly, neither hiding the struggles nor dramatizing them. The person I'd become could acknowledge the darkness without being defined by it, could recognize the challenges without being diminished by them.

One student from the local college asked about my decision to switch majors mid-degree, a question that still came up frequently. “Was it difficult transitioning from Business to Literature? Did you ever regret losing that time?”

I considered for a moment before answering. “It was terrifying, actually. I had this plan mapped out, this idea of what responsible looked like. But I was drowning in courses that didn't speak to me. Literature had always been my refuge, even before I had words for why. My therapist asked me once what I'd choose if there were no constraints, no responsibilities. That question changed everything. As for regrets, I regret that it took me so long to trust myself, but I don't regret a single minute spent finding my way here.”

Another question came from the back of the room, this one more personal: “Your book touches briefly on your family history. Has your relationship with your mother evolved since then?”

I felt my siblings tense slightly across the room, but I'd prepared for this. It wasn't the first time someone had asked.

“Some relationships aren't meant to continue,” I said carefully. “My mother has found her own path to recovery, and I'm grateful for that. But sometimes the healthiest thing is to acknowledge when a chapter is truly closed. My family is here tonight, the one we built together through choice and commitment rather than just genetics. That's the story I'm focused on writing now.”

When the formal Q the broken patient in the hospital; the struggling guardian trying to hold a family together; the student finding his way back to himself; the writer discovering his voice; and now this man, loved and in love, standing at the threshold of yet another beginning.

“Yes,” I whispered, then louder, “Yes.” My vision blurred with tears as Ethan slipped the ring onto my finger. I pulled him to his feet and into my arms, our embrace saying everything words couldn't contain.

The ring caught the light as I cupped his face in my hands. Upon closer inspection, I could see that the pattern wasn't random but intentional: a semicolon flowing into an infinity symbol, the very design I'd been contemplating for my tattoo.

“How did you know?” I asked, voice thick with emotion.

Ethan smiled, pressing his forehead against mine. “You mentioned it a few months ago, just in passing. I thought it was perfect, this idea that our story doesn't end, it just keeps evolving. That's what I want with you, Leo. Not just a continuation, but infinite possibilities.”

From the direction of the house came a sudden eruption of cheers and applause. I looked up to see Sophie, Diego, and Mari standing on the back porch, glasses raised in our direction. Sophie was filming, of course, her camera catching the moment for posterity.

“They were in on it?” I asked, laughing through my tears.

“All of them,” Ethan confirmed. “Even Eleanor. She's holding a small engagement party at the bookstore next weekend. Hope that's okay.”

The thought of our entire extended family, biological and chosen, coming together to celebrate this next chapter filled me with a joy so complete it was almost painful.

“It's perfect,” I said, looking from Ethan to our family on the porch and back again. “All of it.”

Later, surrounded by siblings and congratulations and impromptu toasts, I found myself looking at the ring on my finger, at the symbol that connected so deeply to my own journey. The semicolon that had started as a reminder not to end my story had evolved into something even more powerful: a promise that the story would continue to unfold in ways I couldn't yet imagine, with this family we'd built together at its heart.

In the morning, I would call my cousin in Arizona and share the news. She would pass it along to my mother, who would likely send a card with her well-wishes. We had found our balance, a way to acknowledge our connection without reopening old wounds. Some stories find their proper endings so that new ones can begin.

An infinity of possibilities stretching out before us, waiting to be written. Together.