Page 101 of October
I smiled, handing it back. "She sees you, huh?"
He shrugged, but the smile he tried to hide gave him away.
"That's special, Jimmy. When someone notices the little things, when they see the quiet parts of you and like them anyway? That's rare. That's good."
He looked at the drawing again, running his thumb over the edge. "It just... made my whole day better."
I rested a hand on his back. "You deserve that, buddy."
He laughed, head finally lifting. "She's weird. In a good way."
"You like weird."
"I do."
We sat in the soft quiet of his room for a while, surrounded by posters, mismatched socks, and the steady hum of a teenage world still unfolding.
"I'm so proud of you," I told him, grinning. "Kind, respectful, and totally adorable. You're like a rom-com hero in the making."
He let out a dramatic groan and buried his face in his hands. "Oh my God, please never say that again."
I laughed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "Too late. Immortalized forever."
"Ugh," he muttered, but I caught the smile sneaking through.
"Can I text her goodnight first?" he asked, eyes hopeful.
"Two minutes."
He nodded, already typing.
At the door, I turned back. "Jimmy?"
"Yeah?"
"She's lucky if she gets to know you."
He didn't look up, but his smile stretched wide across his face. "Thanks, Dad." Then he looked up at me, eyes open and earnest, "Dad... do you have any advice?"
For a second, I was seventeen again, awkward and eager, hands clammy around a phone, staring at October's name like it was sacred. Drawing her initials on the backs of notebooks. Holding my breath when she laughed at something dumb I said, like that laugh made me worthy.
"She already likes you," I said, sitting beside him. "That's the hardest part. Just... be honest. Be gentle and listen more than you talk."
He smiled a little, "Okay." I reached out and ruffled his hair again, and he rolled his eyes like it was the most embarrassing thing in the world but he didn't pull away.
"Now sleep," I added, standing and turning off the bedside lamp.
As I closed his door most of the way, I stood in the hallway for a second, swallowed in memory.
It felt like only yesterday that I was calling October late into the night, listening to the way her voice curled around a joke, how even her silences felt like lullabies. She used to leave me notes, little torn scraps of paper that smelled like her skin. "You were in my dream again." "I hope you're smiling today." "Come find me."
I used to carry them in my wallet until the ink faded and the corners went soft. She called memon veloursormy velvetwhen we were young. Because I was tall and quiet, all sharp edges on the outside, but soft where it mattered. Soft with her. Always soft with her. She said I was loud in silence, constant, comforting.
God, how I miss her words. How the world feels emptier without them. I walked back to our room. The sheets were still warm from where she'd lain. I slipped under them slowly, careful not to wake her but I didn't need to. Even in sleep, she found me. She shifted, curling toward me, her hand resting gently over my heart, fingers twisting slightly in the fabric of my shirt like she used to when she needed grounding. Then, in a voice barelyabove a whisper—barely even a sound—she murmured into my chest: "I love you,"
For a moment, everything else, guilt, fear, shame, the uncertain weight of trying to repair something so deeply fractured, fell away. There was just her voice. Her warmth. The past we shared and the future still clinging stubbornly to us, waiting. In that moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we weren't lost yet. Maybe we were just finding our way back. One breath at a time.
She went back to sleep and I murmured, "I love you too and I'll keep loving you until I've silenced every ghost that tells you otherwise. One day, you'll believe me."
