Page 34 of Breaking Through

"Nothing. Everything." The words tumbled out as I held up Gran's journal like a shield. "I found something that might help. She wrote about healing through art, about processing trauma and—"

Something in his expression shifted, subtle but devastating. It was like watching a door close in slow motion.

"It's four in the morning." His voice was quiet, controlled—too controlled.

"I know, I know, but these techniques she describes are amazing. There's this whole section about color therapy and how certain pigments can help unlock emotional—"

"Stop." It was only one word, but it hit like a punch to the gut. "Please... stop."

"But if you tried—"

"I'm not one of your grandmother's restoration projects." The words were ragged and raw. "You can't just... fix me with her art theories."

I stumbled back like he'd pushed me, though he hadn't moved. The journal suddenly felt heavy in my hands, its wisdom turning to lead. "That's not what I—"

"Isn't it?" His eyes were the color of storm clouds about to break. "You show up in the middle of the night with a notebook full of solutions, thinking you can somehow paint over all the broken parts?"

"Wade, please. I only wanted—"

"To help. Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture almost violent. "But did you ask if I wanted help? Did you even consider that maybe I'm not something to be fixed? Maybe I'm doing okay?"

Each question landed like another body blow. He was right. God, he was right. I hadn't asked. Just like my parents hadn't asked Grandpa what he wanted. I'd done precisely what I'd accused them of doing—trying to fix someone without allowing them to make their own decisions.

"I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again. "I'm sorry. I… I hate seeing you hurt. That's all."

"You think I don't see that?" His voice dropped to a lower register. "I see how you look at my scars. Like they're something you can heal if you can find the right... what did your grandmother call it? Technique?"

"No, that's not—"

"Every time I show you something real and broken, you come back with solutions. Tips. Theories." He gestured at the journal in my hand. "That treats me like I'm some kind of project you can restore to mint condition."

"I'm trying to help!" The words burst out, desperate and wrong.

"I don't need that kind of help!" The volume of his response made us both cringe. He took a deep breath, visibly pullinghimself back. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less intense. "I need... I need..."

"What?" I whispered. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to let me be broken sometimes." He slowly exhaled. "Stop trying to fix every crack and scar. They're part of me now, Holden. No matter how many healing techniques you find, they're not going away."

The journal slipped from my fingers, hitting the porch with a soft thud. "I'm terrible at not trying to fix things." I promptly tripped over my own feet while trying to take a step closer, nearly face-planting into his chest.Grace under pressure, Holden.

"I noticed." Wade reached out with a slight smirk on his face. He folded me into a hug. "It's part of what makes you... you. This endless optimism, a belief that everything can be made better. But sometimes better isn't what's needed."

"Then what is?"

"Sometimes..." He looked past me, out the window into the fog-wrapped forest. "Sometimes you just need someone to sit with you in the dark. You don't need them to try to light candles, find circuit breakers, or paint the shadows away. Being there. That's all you need. Someone who understands that some wounds don't heal clean."

I thought about words I'd heard from Grandpa. "Some things can't be fixed. They can only be lived through. Together."

"Can I..." My voice wavered. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Can I just sit with you for a while? No fixing. No solutions. Just... this?"

Wade studied me for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes. Then he stepped back, emotionally opening the door wider. "Coffee?"

The word was barely a whisper. It was an olive branch—a new beginning.

"Please."

We ended up on Wade's porch, watching fog curl around the pines while dawn painted the sky in watercolor washes. His shoulder pressed against mine, warm and solid. Neither of us spoke, but the silence was healing of a different kind.

---