Page 93 of Shackled By Shadows

“Please,” I continue, my voice cracking slightly, but still, he doesn’t respond.

We sit there in silence, the air between us dense with everything that remains unsaid. It stretches on for what feels like an eternity.

“I should go,” he mutters, shifting in his seat before standing.

“Talk to me,” I plead, my desperation creeping into my tone. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on. Please . . . let me in.”

His eyes soften, and there’s a sharpness in his voice when he speaks. “You can’t help at all.”

It feels like a punch to my chest, but I’m not ready to give up. “I want to.” My voice barely above a whisper, “I want to take care of you.”

He chuckles then, a sound devoid of humor, and runs his hands through his hair. “Take care of me?” he repeats, as if the idea is absurd.

Maybe no one has ever taken care of him before.

Maybe he has always been the one to take care of everyone else, to give and give until there is nothing left.

“Yes,” My voice firmer now as I tighten my resolve. “I want to take care of you.” I gesture around the room, taking in the weight of the situation, of everything that has led to this moment. “All of this,” I say, my voice trembling with the force of my emotions, “This entire fucking thing, it’s because of you. You take care of everybody. You give yourself over and over again until there’s nothing left. Who gives back to you? Who refills what you empty? Who takes care of you?”

He remains silent, but I can see the way his shoulders tense.

I press on, unable to stop myself. “Let me. Let me in. Let me take care of you. Let me hold this with you. I don’t care how hard it gets. I want to be here for you.”

I see a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, but it is gone just as quickly. He shakes his head, a hollow look in his gaze. “It’s too late,” he says softly.

“What do you mean it’s too late?” I demand, a surge of anger and fear coursing through me. “It’s not. Stop being so damned stubborn.”

“It’s not me being stubborn,” he says, his voice low and resigned. “It’s the truth. It’s too late for me. All I can do now is make sure that I’ve given you the tools to carry on in my place.”

I recoil, my breath catching in my throat. “What are you talking about?” I scream, the panic rising in my chest. “What is really going on?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes flicker to the side, refusing to meet mine. The silence that follows is unbearable.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. I can’t keep the tremor from my voice when I speak next. “You speak as if you’re already dead.”

A faint, humorless smile tugs at the corner of his lips, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps parts of me are,” he murmurs, his voice distant, as if he is speaking from some faraway place I can’t reach.

The denial surges within me, fierce and unrelenting. I can’t let this be true. I can’t let him slip away, not like this. The weight in his voice, the hopelessness behind his words . . . it makes something deep inside me ache, something raw and desperate. I refuse to believe it. I won’t.

“You’re not dead,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “You’re not. Not yet. You still have so much to fight for.”

He looks at me then, his gaze softening for just a brief moment before he turns away again. The distance between us feels insurmountable, and in that moment, I wonder if I will ever be able to truly reach him.

I rise slowly, crossing the space between us until I stand within reach. The distance between us now is a little more than a breath.

“Oberon.” His name feels fragile on my tongue, as though it could shatter with the slightest breath.

He tenses, the muscles in his back going rigid, but he doesn’t turn.

“Look at me.”

For what feels like an eternity, I think he won’t. The silence between us stretches unbearably thin. Then, slowly, he does.

His eyes meet mine.

In that instant, the world seems to stop. Time itself holds its breath.

The shadows swirl in his eyes like they did that day in the meeting room, dark and swirling, hollowing out the sharp lines of his face. But it isn’t the exhaustion that catches my breath. It is something far deeper. Something I can’t quite name, but I feel it, the aching, the loneliness. Not the kind that comes from isolation. The kind that comes from being surrounded by people, and yet, feeling utterly, irrevocably alone. It carves through him, invisible but devastating.