Page 94 of Cold Front
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t have to. The truth sat between us, suffocating and undeniable.
I thought I was protecting myself. Keeping everything under control. But maybe I was just bracing for the moment it all got taken away.
Dr. Matthews studied me for a long moment, then leaned forward slightly. “I want you to try something.”
I let out a slow breath. “What?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, like she was considering her next words carefully. “You’ve carried this weight for a long time, Niall. And you’ve done everything you can to keep it locked away. But the thing about grief is, it doesn’t stay buried. It finds ways to seep through the cracks.”
I swallowed hard, staring at a spot on the floor.
“I want you to write them a letter,” she said gently.
My eyes snapped up to hers. “A letter?”
She nodded. “Say everything you never let yourself say. The guilt, the love, the anger, the questions. All of it. No holding back.”
A lump formed in my throat. “And then what?” My voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “Burn it?”
“If that’s what you need.”
Dr. Matthews let the silence settle between us before she spoke again, softer this time. “If they could say something to you right now, if they could reach through all of this pain and tell you what they wanted you to know… what would it be?”
My fingers curled into fists. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
Her voice wasn’t pushing, wasn’t forcing—but it was certain. Like she already knew what I was afraid to admit.
I clenched my jaw, a sharp exhale leaving my lips.
“I’m not asking you to believe the words right now,” she continued. “I’m asking you to let yourself hear them.”
I couldn’t answer.
Because for the first time in years, I wasn’t sure I could keep running—from the grief, from the guilt, from everything I’d never let myself feel.
CHAPTER36
ELI
The apartment wasn’t any quieter than usual, but it felt different. Off. Like the air itself was heavier.
I used to feel Niall’s presence even when he wasn’t in the room—the way he took up space without trying, the sound of his heavy footfalls, the clink of weights when he worked out in the living room. The low, gruff responses when I tried to make conversation. The accidental brushes in the kitchen that neither of us acknowledged, but we pulled away from, either.
But now? Now, it was like he was purposefully shrinking away, pulling himself back into some unreachable place. And maybe that was on me. I was the one who’d backed off first. The one who’d stopped trying. The one who couldn’t stand feeling like a secret.
I wasn’t mad at him for not being ready. I got it. I did. But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.
My phone was warm in my palm, too familiar in a way I hated—like a reminder of all the times I’d ignored messages, let friendships slip away, made myself unreachable because it was easier than dealing with the fallout.
I flicked through my apps mindlessly before my finger hesitated over a familiar icon. A group chat I hadn’t touched in over a year.
The messages were still there, frozen in time, full of inside jokes and chaotic plans that never quite happened. The last message was from me. A half-assed excuse about being busy. A message that went unanswered. Not because my friends didn’t care, but because, by then, they already knew. Knew Chase had pulled me away. Knew I wouldn’t answer if they reached out.
A tight knot formed in my chest. I used to talk to these people every day. They’d been my safe space, my people. And I’d let them go without a fight.
My chest tightened. I almost backed out. Almost locked my phone and shoved it away like I had a hundred times before.
