Instead, I roll up my sleeve and show him my wrists.
The scars are thin, white, faded but visible. Evidence of a night I tried to erase myself.
Ryder stares at them for a long moment. Then he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I made the choice.”
“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve sympathy.”
“I don’t want sympathy. I want…” I trail off, not sure what I want.
“To feel like you’re not drowning?” Ryder offers.
“Yeah. That.”
We sit in silence, two broken people on a bench, carrying different kinds of damage.
“The doctor says I need physical therapy,” Ryder says eventually. “To rebuild strength in my shoulder.”
“You should do it.”
“I don’t want to go to the team physical therapist. Don’t want it on record, don’t want everyone knowing how bad it is.”
“So go somewhere else.”
“Can’t afford private PT. Hockey scholarship covers tuition, but not much else.”
An idea forms in my mind. Possibly stupid. Probably reckless. Definitely crossing boundaries I should maintain.
“I could help,” I hear myself say.
“You?”
“I did PT for a year. After I…” I gesture vaguely at my wrists. “After. I know the exercises, know how to build strength safely. I’m not a professional, but I know enough.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because watching you destroy yourself reminds me too much of watching myself. Because maybe helping you helps me. Because we’re both drowning and maybe we can take turns keeping each other’s heads above water.”
Ryder looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “That’s the most honest thing anyone’s said to me in months.”
“I don’t do polite lies.”
“I’m starting to realize that, not that different from your brother.” He shifts his shoulder carefully. “Okay. Let’s try it. But I have conditions.”
“Which are?”
“You have to actually participate in the photography club. No joining and then hiding.”
“That’s fair.”
“And you have to tell me when you’re having a bad day. No pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
“That’s… harder.”
“Then we’ll both struggle with it together.”
I extend my hand. “Deal.”
