Page 69 of Anything But Lonely

I didn’t want to feel anything anymore.

So I didn't.

And there’s no point in pretending it’s anything different.

Because that’s all I was doing.

Pretending to be okay.

Pretending to be fine.

Pretending that I’m capable of feeling anything but numb.

“Who was that?” Jack asks when I walk back into his new office, pocketing my phone and sitting back down on the floor in front of the box I was in the middle of unpacking when Mateo texted me.

“Crew wanted to say hi,” I answer. “I invited him to come see the station Saturday.”

Jack nods.

“I don’t really know why,” I offer, talking more to myself than to him. “I don’t know if you’ll even be here Saturday, but Crew sounded so happy when I told him I was here, and… I don’t know,” I pause, not quite sure what I want to say.

“Sometimes we need to borrow happiness when we can’t find it ourselves,” Jack says, and it’s like something in my brain clicking into place.

My brother has always been someone who only says what he has to—never one for small talk or filling silences just because they’re there.

Growing up, I used to think it was because he didn’t have much to say.

It wasn’t until I was older that I realized it was the opposite.

He had plenty to say. He just wanted the words he said to count for something—to carry weight instead of getting swallowed up among the words that didn’t hold any true meaning.

He wasn’t quiet because he had nothing to offer.

He was quiet because he knew the value of his words

So when he pounded on my door this morning until finally using the key I gave him for emergencies, and found me lying in bed in the same sweater I wore on Christmas Day, he didn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He didn’t yell at me to get up.

He didn’t tell me to clean up the mess of my bedroom or ask why there were dishes sitting untouched on my nightstand or question how I couldn’t remember the last time I brushed my teeth.

He didn’t make me explain how hard I’ve been fighting to do the simplest things. How getting out of bed had somehow become a mountain I didn’t have the energy to climb. How every little task I used to do without thinking had become another reminder that something inside me wasn’t working the way it was supposed to.

Then he grabbed me a glass of water and held out his hand until I took it, helping me sit up. He gave me some time to shower and get dressed, waiting for me in my living room before taking me to go get something to eat and waiting patiently for me to finish my whole plate.

It was reminiscent of the way Mateo did the same thing, pushing water towards me the entire time.

And it made my chest hurt in a way I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from.

I thought it hurt to lose my mom. A visceral, all-consuming pain that doesn’t ease.

But my brother finding me in the state he did…

And watching him treat me with such patience.

That pain was worse.