Page 88 of Shattered

“He—” I pause, knowing I need to say it. “He’s gone.” Air whooshes out of me. I feel Brayden’s fingers link with mine and my eyes immediately snap to people in the room who pay no mind to Bohdi’s hand they just look at me, their eyes pained.

“I’m sorry,” Michael mutters, his head dropping low. Everyone around the circle mutters their apologies.

“Thank you.”

“If this is too much, please do say, but can you share what happened?” the lady gently asks.

“He overdosed,” I confess, my voice a fragile thread. “By accident.” The words tumble out, a desperate attempt to makesense of the senseless. Bohdi’s hand tightens around mine, a silent promise that we’re in this together. I glance up, meeting his eyes.

“He left me a note,” I continue, my voice trembling. “He was trying to get better. Bags packed, ready to leave, to start over. He was coming back to me. But I still don’t know why he took the drugs,” I admit, my gaze dropping. “And I’ve learned not to think about it too much. It won’t help.”

“How have you been coping?” Someone in the group’s question pierces through the fog. I force a small laugh, a brittle shield against the storm.

“I appreciate this isn’t a therapy session,” I say. “I don’t want to waste your time with my feelings.”

“No, my dear. We come here to help each other, even in loss. We’re all here for you. There are people here that have lost people to overdoses too and still come here as a way of helping themselves heal.” I don’t know why, but it feels right being here. It’s as if Bexley is in this room staring at me now, smiling, telling me to let it out, telling me to open up. My mind goes back to his letter.

I know why it hurts you to let people in, Brayden. Because you let me in and it fucking hurt, didn’t it? It cut like a knife to your veins, bleeding you out every single day. I’m so fucking sorry.

“Some days, it doesn’t feel real,” I confess, my voice a fragile whisper. “People don’t understand that losing someone so close isn’t a single event, it’s a series of small losses. Every time I pick up the phone and dial his number, I lose him all over again.” The weight of that truth settles on my chest, suffocating.

“I called him the other day, after training. I used to go and see him after training sometimes. But when I pressed call, reality slammed into me: he’s not here anymore. Every morning, I wake up to a world where he no longer exists, and I have to acceptthat he’ll only ever live in my dreams now. It’s as if I was already grieving him while he was still breathing, while he was still here. I could touch him then, feel the warmth of his skin, inhale his scent, hear his laughter. Now, there’s nothing. Just silence, an empty echo where he used to be. Honestly, I can’t explain the pain. It’s so deep I don’t think it will ever truly root itself out of me. I don’t think I will ever truly grasp the meaning of gone forever.” A tear slips down my cheek, and before I can wipe it away, Bohdi reaches out, gentle and steady.

He’s always there, catching each tear that falls. “I’m so sorry, Brayden. I really am.” The woman wipes her tears away from her face. I offer her a soft smile.

“Always remember, it’s OK to always be a little sad. Whether it’s one year, or ten years from now, it reminds us they were real.”

She walks over, opening her arms and her tiny frame holds me, and suddenly, everything tumbles out, the ache, the longing. Just having her hug me makes me wish my mom could have been there for us. Maybe then Bex would still be here. Maybe then he’d still be breathing.

“My sweet boy.” Her voice trembles as she lays her hand across my heart. “He will walk beside you every day, and he will always exist in here.” Her touch is both comforting and heartbreaking, and I feel the weight of loss settle deeper within me. I take a seat and Bohdi leans over, pressing a kiss to my head.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

The group session unfolds, a chorus of pain, strength, and shared struggles. People speak of loved ones lost to drugs, their voices cracking with grief. I listen, my heart aching in solidarity. In this room, we’re bound by our brokenness, yet somehow, it feels like a fragile lifeline.

As the session nears its end, the lady’s question hangs in the air: Will I return? My answer spills, fueled by determination anda dream that burns brighter than ever. “I’d really like to continue coming,” I say, my voice steadier now. “And if it’s OK with all of you, I want to volunteer. You see, I’m working on a school project, a tiny seed of hope. But my ultimate dream? To open my own nonprofit rehab center. To help people like Bexley, who never received the lifeline they deserved.”

Her response is warm, genuine. “We would be delighted to have you join our family.”

We trudge back to the car, exhaustion settling deep within my bones. The group session, the shared pain, the whispered hopes, has left me drained.

“Can you stay with me tonight?”

“I’d love to,” I reply, stifling a yawn. “Can we grab some takeout and eat in bed?” His smile lifts my weariness, and I nestle into the passenger seat.

“I couldn’t think of anything more perfect,” Boh murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. As he drives, I steal glances at him, wondering how someone can be both my anchor and my escape.

We arrive at his place, and Boh scans the surroundings like a guard. Satisfied, he leans down, whispering, “Coast is clear.”

I pull my hat low, hood up, and dash inside. The door shuts behind me, and before I can catch my breath, Boh’s lips find mine, urgent, hungry, as if they’ve been waiting all day.

“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he murmurs against my mouth. But a throat clears behind him, and Boh gasps, covering me with his body.

“Cash,” Boh wooshes out. The man at the kitchen counter, older but unmistakably related to Boh, pours himself a beer. His gaze flickers from Bohdi to me, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Hi,” I manage, offering a tight-lipped smile. This must be Cash.

“Is that Boh?” A girl’s voice echoes from one of the bedrooms as she strides down the hallway and into the open-plan kitchen.Her beauty is striking, long brown hair, big green eyes. It takes a moment, but then I recognize her. Rylee Stiles, Jace’s wife.

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