Dr. Kim doesn’t try to make it stop, just sits there quietly, a box of tissues within reach.
When I can speak again, my voice is wrecked.
“I think that’s what I’ve been most afraid of. Loving someone else that much. Opening myself to that kind of loss again.”
“With Marnie.”
“Yes.” I look at her directly. “What if I love her and lose her too?”
“That’s always the risk with love. But the alternative is never loving at all. Is that really a life you want to live?”
I think about five years of holding myself apart. Of keeping walls between myself and connection. Of existing rather than living.
Until Marnie crashed through those defenses.
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
Dr. Kim nods. “Then you already know what you need to do.”
When the session ends, I feel lighter and more exhausted than I’ve ever been.
“Roman?” She stops me before I can leave. “Matthew would be proud of you. For coming here. For letting yourself love someone. For choosing to live instead of just survive.”
My throat closes again, but I manage a nod before heading out.
Marnie’s waiting exactlywhere she said she’d be.
She stands the moment she sees me, eyes going to my face and reading everything there.
She doesn’t ask if I’m okay—she can see I’m not. Just walks over and wraps her arms around me.
I hold her there, not caring who sees. Let myself take what she’soffering—the solid reality of her, the comfort of being held by someone who knows exactly how wrecked I am and isn’t trying to fix it.
“You need anything?” she asks quietly against my chest.
“Just this.” My voice is still rough. “Just you.”
She pulls back after a moment, studies my face. “Home?”
I nod.
In the truck, she doesn’t push for details. Just sits close, hand on my thigh, letting me have silence.
Seattle traffic moves around us and I focus on the road, on Marnie’s hand, on anything except the weight in my chest.
At home,I go straight to the couch.
Marnie sits beside me, not crowding, just present.
“How are you feeling?” she asks after a moment.
I think about Dr. Kim’s office. About Matty feeling like a burden. About the therapist not seeing it coming either.
“Exhausted,” I say. “But maybe a little less—” I stop, searching for the word. “Less stuck.”
She nods, doesn’t push for more. Just takes my hand.
I pull her closer, not ready to talk more but needing her here.
