Chapter 21: Not Alone?

Sloane POV

The house was quiet in a way that made me feel exposed. Every step I took sounded loud, echoing through spaces that had suddenly grown too big.

I moved almost automatically, letting Alex’s mother guide me to the couch. She was gentle, her hand brushing my shoulder in a way that should have comforted me. It didn’t. It only reminded me of what I had lost.

“You’re not alone,” she said softly. “You’re going to stay here. With us.”

I wanted to refuse. I wanted to disappear into the emptiness I carried with me from the hospital. But her words pressed into me and stayed there. Stay here. With them. My chest ached, but I didn’t speak. I didn’t belong anywhere anymore.

Footsteps came from the hall. Alex. I knew before I saw him. His presence carried a weight I couldn’t ignore. Our eyes met, and a flicker of something unspoken passed between us. Recognition, maybe. Shared grief. Or something more I wasn’t ready to name.

His mother asked him to make me something to eat. He refused flatly. My chest tightened. I shouldn’t care. I told myself I didn’t need him. I told myself I had no right to expect anything from him. But still, it hurt,his refusal, the way he treated me like my grief didn’t exist.

The food arrived anyway, untouched. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t. I sat, stiff, my hands folded in my lap, letting the quiet press down on me. Hours passed.

Eventually, I moved down the hall. His room. My hand lifted and knocked. My chest tightened. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to answer or if I wanted him to leave me alone.

The door opened. The surprise in his eyes mirrored my own. Neither of us spoke.

The air was heavy with unspoken words. I could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders as I felt it on my own. Neither of us was prepared for this.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” I whispered finally. Just the truth. He looked at me, really looked, and for a moment, the isolation I had carried loosened slightly.

He didn’t speak. That was enough. He acknowledged the chaos inside me without judgment.

I stepped inside, closing the door softly. The room smelled faintly of him, and I shivered despite myself. I sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded. Silence stretched, heavy and fragile.

“You didn’t have to come in here,” he said at last, his voice low but measured.

“I didn’t want to be anywhere else,” I admitted, my voice catching. “I couldn’t stay in the living room, pretending I wasn’t… I couldn’t.”

He exhaled, steadying himself. “You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “I know you’re hurting. This isn’t simple.”

“No,” I said quietly. “Nothing about this is simple.”

For a long moment, we just sat there. Words hung between us, delicate and heavy. Slowly, the tension shifted. He didn’t move away. He stayed, present, like a lifeline.

I let my hands fall to my sides and exhaled. Grief, anger, emptiness still there but I felt the faintest trace of grounding.

“I don’t know how to do this without her,” I admitted.

“You’re not alone,” he said softly, more certain this time.

For the first time since the hospital, I realized that surviving didn’t have to mean being entirely alone.

The door clicked shut behind me, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, like the air itself had thickened. I sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded, and tried to breathe without thinking too much.

My chest still ached, and every memory from the hospital threatened to pull me under again. I could hear Alex’s slow, measured breathing, and somehow that steady rhythm was enough to stop me from fully unraveling.

“I didn’t think I’d… end up here,” I said quietly, breaking the silence. My voice sounded strange even to me, fragile but urgent. “Not after everything.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes studied me, calm, unreadable, but there was tension there, subtle, like coiled wire beneath skin.

“You could’ve stayed in the living room,” he said finally. “You didn’t have to come in here.”

“I couldn’t,” I whispered, almost ashamed. “It… it felt worse to sit there and pretend nothing happened. To watch everyone else act like life went on.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the silence stretch. And in that silence, I realized how much I needed him to stay there not to speak, not to comfort me but just to exist in the same space. Just to witness it all with me.

“I know this isn’t easy,” he said finally. His voice was low, controlled. “None of this is easy. But you… you’re here. That matters.”

I swallowed hard. Part of me wanted to shake him, to demand that he feel it too, the raw, jagged pain that made my stomach ache and my chest tighten. But another part of me,maybe the wiser, more broken part simply let the words wash over me. Presence mattered. It was enough, for now.

“I… I feel like I’m losing myself,” I admitted, my voice barely audible. “Like if I let myself think about it too much, I’ll disappear. Completely.”

“You’re not disappearing,” he said firmly. “Not while I’m here. Not while anyone who cares about you is here.”

I wanted to scoff, wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he had no right to decide that for me. But I couldn’t. His words carried a weight I couldn’t push away, and for the first time since the hospital, I let myself feel the faintest relief.

The room was silent again, but it was different now. Less suffocating. Less sharp. He didn’t move, didn’t lean in, didn’t do anything other than exist in the room. And somehow, that was enough.

I thought about everything I had felt earlier, the helplessness, the anger, the fear and realized that I didn’t need to process it all at once. Not with him here. I could let it sit for a while, let it exist, and somehow, maybe, that would make it bearable.

“I’m… scared,” I said finally, my hands clenching in my lap. “Scared I’ll forget her, or that I’ll remember everything too much. That it’ll… it’ll never stop hurting.”

“It won’t stop hurting,” he said softly, almost like a warning and a promise at the same time. “Not completely. But you’ll learn to carry it. You’ll survive it. And you’re not alone in that.”

I let out a long, shaky breath, finally allowing my shoulders to slump. It was such a small, simple thing, but it felt monumental. Letting myself relax, even a fraction, in front of him.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” I admitted, my voice breaking slightly. “Weak. Broken. Helpless.”

“You’re not weak,” he said immediately. “Not for feeling anything. Not for letting it out. That… that doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

I looked at him then, really looked, and for a moment, I almost felt like I could breathe without it feeling impossible. His eyes weren’t soft, and he wasn’t smiling, but there was understanding there, and maybe a little patience.

I stayed quiet for a while, letting that feeling sink in. I thought about everything that had happened, about my mother, the hospital, the way Alex had been there in the background all along. And then I realized something.

I wasn’t ready to move on. I wasn’t ready to accept any of it. But I could be here. Right now. And that was enough.

“I… I should probably get some rest,” I said finally, my voice hesitant. “I… I can’t think straight anymore.”

He didn’t respond at first, just watched me. Then he nodded slightly. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

I stood slowly, keeping my hands folded, careful not to touch him. The air between us was still thick, but it no longer felt like it would suffocate me. Instead, it felt like… space. Space to breathe. To feel. To survive.

I walked toward the door, and before I could step out, he said quietly, “Sloane…”

I froze, turning back slightly, expecting something harsh or dismissive. But all he said was, “You don’t have to do this alone.”