Page 60 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“Will you be okay if I go to the gym?” I ask, already hating how the question sounds. Like I’m asking permission to leave, like I don’t trust him to be alone for an hour. “It’s only in the basement of this building. I’ll keep my phone with me.”
Liam stares at me for a moment, and I can see him processing the subtext. That I need space, need to hit something that won’t break under the force of my frustration. That sitting around pretending everything is normal when it clearly isn’t is driving me slowly insane.
Then his expression changes, becomes something I haven’t seen in weeks.
“Can I come?”
The question catches me completely off guard. I’d forgotten, actually forgotten, that the old Liam used to practically live at the crappy council-subsidized gym. He never stopped moving. Football training, weights, running, anything that involved pushing his body to its limits and feeling the satisfaction of getting stronger, faster, better.
Prison has taken that away from him. I don’t know why or how. I’m pretty sure prisons have gyms and exercisecourts. But maybe they weren’t safe places to go. Perhaps there was some kind of fucked-up prisoner hierarchy and only those that have earned the right, are allowed to use the equipment. Or maybe Liam was simply trying to keep his head down, go unnoticed, and that meant hiding in his cell as much as possible.
Whatever the reason, five years of limited movement, restricted exercise, no access to proper equipment or training has had a striking effect on him. His body now is nothing like what it used to be. It’s thinner, weaker, carrying tension in all the wrong places.
I literally didn’t recognize him when he walked out of the prison gates. It was the first striking sign that something was very, very wrong. That the old Liam no longer existed.
But maybe that’s not permanent. Maybe that’s something else he can reclaim, another piece of himself he can rebuild from the ground up.
The realization hits me like lightning. We’ve been so focused on our relationship, on the romantic and sexual complications of trying to love each other through trauma, that we’ve forgotten there’s so much more to life. So many other ways Liam can find himself again, can remember who he used to be before prison tried to erase him completely.
Sports. Exercise. The simple joy of physical achievement that has nothing to do with anyone else’s expectations or needs.
“That would be fantastic!” I grin, and I mean it completely. “You’re going to be back to kicking my ass in no time!”
Liam beams back at me, actually beams, bright and genuine and full of something I’d almost forgotten he was capable of. Hope. Excitement. The prospect of doing something for himself, something that might make him feel strong instead of fragile.
For the first time in days, the awkwardness between us dissolves completely. Not because we’ve solved anything or figured out how to navigate the minefield of our relationship, but because we’ve found something that exists outside of all that complexity.
Something simple and good and entirely his to reclaim.
“I’ll need to get some gym clothes,” he says, already moving toward his bedroom with more energy than I’ve seen from him in weeks. “But I have stuff that will do for now.”
“We’ll go to a sports shop tomorrow,” I tell him. “Get you proper kit. Whatever you need.”
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe, but something deeper too. Like he’s seeing a possibility he’d forgotten existed.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For remembering that I used to be more than just someone who needs fixing.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Because he’s right. Somewhere along the way, I’d started seeing him only as a collection of problems to solve, damage to heal, trauma to navigate. I’d forgotten that underneath all of that, there’s still the person who used to run circles around me on the football pitch, who could bench press twice his body weight and still have energy for a five-mile run afterward. Someone who used to light up with pure joy at the simple pleasure of physical achievement.
“Of course,” I tell him. “You always were. I just... forgot for a while.” The confession tastes bittersweet on my tongue. Laced with guilt and shame. But I’m not going to lie to him, he deserves the truth from me if nothing else.
He nods and disappears into his room, and I can hear him moving around with more purpose than he’s shown in weeks. Looking for clothes, making plans, thinking about what kind of workout he wants to try first.
I quickly dash into my room and change into my gym clothes, lightning fast. I’m back in the corridor before he is, and that’s just fine. I have a proper kit while he has to throw something together.
Going shopping tomorrow is going to be wonderful. I can treat him to all the branded high-end workout gear he used to dream of.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes, feeling something loosen in my chest for the first time since that awful night in the bathroom.
This is what healing looks like, I think. Not a straight line from broken to fixed, not a series of dramatic breakthroughs and perfect moments. Just small steps forward, tiny discoveries of old joys, gradual reclamation of all the pieces of yourself that trauma tried to steal.
Maybe we don’t have to figure out how to love each other perfectly right now. Maybe it’s enough to figure out how to help each other remember who we used to be, who we still are underneath all the damage.
Maybe it’s enough to take it one day at a time, one small victory at a time, one moment of genuine happiness at a time.
Liam emerges from his room wearing track pants that are too big for him and a faded tee shirt that hangs off histhin frame. Both are hand-me-downs I gave him before our disastrous Primark trip.
He looks nothing like the athletic teenager I remember, but there’s something in his posture now. A straightening of his shoulders, a lift to his chin, that reminds me of the boy who used to be unstoppable on the football pitch.
