I lie awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, letting the city lights filter in. I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t replay the locker-room moment again. I don’t wonder what I could have done differently.
I already know I did everything right. I showed up and stayed open. I didn’t disappear when things got hard.
That’s all I can ever offer anyone.
The next morning, on my way to work, I pass Frank’s room again. It’s occupied now. A new patient with a new story beginning where his ended. I pause long enough to send a quiet thank-you into the space, then keep moving.
I’ve learned that grief doesn’t mean stopping. It means carrying what mattered forward.
I see Colton only once today. It’s a brief exchange at the nurses’ station. He thanks me for something mundane, his tone polite but distant.
I return the same energy. I’m not cold or rude, just contained. It surprises me how natural it feels. Not because I don’t care, but because I care enough about myself to not unravel over someone else’s silence.
Later, on my break, I sit outside with a coffee, the spring air against my skin. I think about Frank’s words. About the way he saw things so clearly, even as his body failed him.
Colton thinks control keeps him safe. I don’t feel angry at him. I feel sad for him because I know what it’s like to believe shutting down is the only way to survive loss. I know how tempting it is to build a life so carefully controlled that nothing unexpected can ever hurt you again.
I also know what that costs.
Bryce taught me that loving fully doesn’t make the loss meaningless.
It makes the love real.
When I get home that evening, I finally pick up my phone again. Colton’s messages are still there, hovering in the quiet space between us.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I type a response.
What I want to say is complicated. What I choose to say is simple.
Me: I know you’re hurting. But I need someone who stays.
I stare at the screen for a moment, my finger hovering over the Send button.
Then I press it.
My chest tightens with relief. Whatever happens next, I didn’t abandon myself to make it happen. That matters to me.
I set the phone down and move through the rest of my evening with a quiet steadiness I’m proud of. I cook dinner. I take a shower. I let myself exist without bracing for disappointment.
When I climb into bed, the city humming outside my window, one thought settles gently into place.
I am capable of loving deeply. But I am also capable of walking away from what can’t meet me there. Those two truths can exist at the same time.
And for the first time since Frank’s death, I feel grounded in that knowledge.
Whatever choice Colton makes next, I know I’ve already made mine.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Colton
The hospital feels louder without Frank.
Not in any way I can point to. The monitors still beep, phones still ring, shoes still squeak on tiles, but in the way an absence can fill a space until it presses against your ribs. Like the building is daring me to notice what I’m trying not to.
