Page 161 of Tiny Fractures

Ronan isn’t at school today, which immediately has me concerned. I text him to check on him during lunch. I don’t mean to be overbearing, but he’s been really withdrawn these past few weeks. It’s almost like his light is flickering, and I fear it’ll extinguish completely.

“I’m worried about him,” Shane said last weekend while we were hanging out at the beach, celebrating Tori’s eighteenth birthday. Ronan had had a rough few days between therapy, physical therapy, and keeping up with school, and he was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. I wanted to stay with him, but he urged me to spend time with our friends instead, saying he really needed some time alone.

He’s been withdrawing, spending less and less time with his friends and me, and sometimes I feel as though he’s pushing me away. I have to constantly remind myself that this isn’t about me; it’s not something that will be fixed overnight or even in a few months like his bones.

We still have no real idea of the extent of the abuse he suffered at his mom’s hands—how frequent it was, or when it started—but we’re starting to get an idea. I’m slowly realizing that it was a lot more pervasive than it appeared at first glance, and it was probably always a part of Ronan’s life.

On Saturday, Shane told us in more detail about the handful of times Ronan confided in him, showed him the bruises, and that was just over the summer. We got into a long discussion about the signs that, in retrospect, were there all along. Signs we didn’t recognize as pointing to the reality that Ronan’s mother was hurting him. And thinking about it is excruciating. Picturing him being hurt by the one person who, above all, was supposed to love and protect him threatens to break my heart into a million little pieces.

“I recognize what he’s doing from what my little brother, Liam did right before… right before he died,” Shane added, his lips pressed together.

“Jesus, Shane, could you paint a bleaker picture?” Zack winced.

Steve looked to the ground, swallowing hard. “No, he’s right,” Steve said. “I’m worried, too. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat; it’s like he can’t remember who he is. He’s not Ran right now. He’s like a ghost of himself and it’s fucking terrifying. I’ve never seen him like this. Guys, those fucking nightmares he has…” Steve trailed off, rubbing his hands over his face.

This whole conversation put me on edge, like I shouldn’t have left Ronan that evening, should have insisted on staying with him.

I ended up calling Ronan a few minutes later to check in on him. He sounded tired but promised he was doing alright, that he had just taken some pain medication because his ribs and knee were bothering him and he was starting to get drowsy. I told him I loved him, and we hung up without him saying it back. And that’s okay, because all that matters right now is that he hears from us that he’s loved, over and over again. I don’t expect him to have room for anything but trying to heal right now.

But it doesn’t feel like he’s able to get out of that dark place he’s in. And although his physical injuries continue to heal, his emotional trauma is as raw as it was when he woke up from the coma, if not worse now that he’s home—in the place where he was abused for so long.

I give Ronan space when he needs it, not pushing it when he doesn’t want to spend time with anyone. I know he doesn’t sleep well, although he doesn’t really talk about it. He doesn’t really talk to anyone about any of it. My mom keeps reminding me to trust the therapist, trust the process, trust that we’re doing the right thing by being present for him. But I can’t help but worry about him, especially when it feels like he’s pulling away from me.

Me: Are you okay? I didn’t see you at school this morning.

Ronan: I’m okay, but I need to talk to you. Can you come by my house after class?

Me: Are you breaking up with me? Because if so, then I’m not coming over.

Ronan: Not unless you break up with me first!

I smile to myself. Sometimes I see glimpses of the real Ronan shining through the darkness, and it gives me so much hope to know he’s still in there somewhere.

Vada gives me a ride to Ronan’s house after school, and I promise to update her when I get home later. Steve opens the door for me when I knock. He gives me a sympathetic smile, which alarms me a little.

“Ran is upstairs,” he says, nodding toward the stairs. I see Frank in the kitchen. He waves at me as I make my way up the stairs and to Ronan’s room, his door wide open.

I walk in. Ronan is sitting on his bed, putting some clothes in a navy duffel bag. “Hey,” I say, looking from the half-packed bag to Ronan.

He turns around and smiles at me. “Hey, baby. Sit with me,” he says, and pats the spot next to him.

I take a seat, my knee touching his, sending little sparks through my body. It’s been weeks since the night at Shane’s, since we’ve been intimate. Ronan has been in such a bad place and there has hardly been a time when we were alone long enough to talk, let alone be with each other like that.

“Why are you packing?” I ask, coming straight to the point. I know that whatever his response is, it will be painful.

He takes my hand in his, his jaw tense. “I have to go away for a while,” he says, his voice low.

“What do you mean?” I say, confused. “Where are you going?”

“Montana. I have… I’m not okay, Cat.” His green eyes meet mine, his brows furrowed. “And if I don’t go, I might do something really stupid, something I won’t be able to undo.”

I immediately understand what he’s saying, and his words hit me like an avalanche, making my head spin. I had an idea he was in a bad place, but I didn’t realize just how bad. “Please don’t hurt yourself,” I beg, tears falling hard and fast from my eyes. “I love you.”

He takes my face into both of his hands and, to my surprise, he kisses me softly. “You’re too good for me,” he murmurs against my lips.

I shake my head in protest. “No, I’m just right for you, and you know it,” I say, my voice thick.

He chuckles a little but turns serious as he lets go of my face. “I’m not strong enough right now; I feel like I’m barely hanging on, like nothing is within my control. And my thoughts really scare me. Leaving might give me a chance to get better. And I want you to have a chance to get better!”

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