Page 25 of The Ballad of Us
"I remember the first morning we spent together. You made me breakfast and hummed while you cooked, and I thought I might be hallucinating because I’d never seen anyone look that happy just to be making eggs. You told me later that you were humming because you felt safe. Because for the first time in years, you’d slept through the night without nightmares."
I do remember. I find safety and warmth in sleeping next to Gray, sober, early-recovery Gray, who held me like I was precious and quieted my anxious mind for the first time in months. I haven’t slept well since I was a kid, long before discovering the true nature of my mom’s heroin addiction. It was the reason she frequently disappeared. The anxiety that appeared after my mom’s frequent absences has never left me. There are times when I catch myself worrying for Mom to this day, and she’s been gone almost thirteen years. Gray is the only person I ever really let in, so he’s the only one to ever quiet the demons still lurking around from my childhood.
"I want to be that person again, Rhea. The one who made you feel safe instead of constantly causing you worry. I’m not sure if it’s possible, but I’m going to give it a try. For you, but also for me. Because the man you fell in love with is still here somewhere, and he deserves a chance to fight for his life."
By the time I finish listening to all seven messages, I’m crying again. But these aren’t the desperate, broken tears I’ve been shedding for weeks. They’re tears of recognition, of hearing the man I love fighting his way back to himself. In those tears, I catch a memory of a fleeting moment in a dimly lit room, where Gray's fingers danced over his guitar strings, crafting melodies just for me. The music wrapped around us like a warm embrace. Contrast that with today’s Gray, whose voice echoes through the voicemail, raw and stripped of pretense, yet filled with a newfound clarity and purpose.
He sounds like the Gray who wrote me songs at three in the morning. He sounds like the man who surprised me with weekend trips to places I’d mentioned wanting to see. He reminds me of the Gray who held me through panic attacks and made me believe that my anxiety didn’t make me broken.
When we met, Gray had been in recovery for three months. He was present, attentive to those around him, and saw every day as a gift. With him, love was a daily choice.
I’ve watched that man slowly disappear as the stress of touring and the pressure of success chipped away at his sobriety. First, it was a drink here and there, just to take the edge off. Then it was regular drinking that he swore he had under control. Then it was daily drinking, blackouts, disappearing for days, and the slow transformation of my lover into a stranger who looked like the man I’d lost my heart to.
But this voice on my phone, this is him finding his way back.
It doesn’t change anything between us. I still can’t go back, still can’t risk my own healing for the possibility that this time might be different. But hearing that the man I loved is fighting for himself, that he’s choosing recovery not just to get me back but because he wants to live, that means everything. The ache that has resided in my chest for weeks shifts into something gentler.
I save the messages and set my phone aside, then walk to the largest bookshelf and trace my finger along the empty shelf again.
Tomorrow I’ll start learning to make coffee again. I’ll begin building a life that’s mine alone, filled with books and new friends and the kind of simple pleasures I forgot existed during my years of loving an addict.
But tonight, I’ll fall asleep to the sound of the man I still love fighting his way back to the light. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most beautiful love story of all, not the one where a person saves you, but the one where they save themselves.
Eight
GRAY
Day sixty begins the same way as the others. My feet hit the floor at 5:30 in the morning. I recall the last time I set an early alarm for an award show. I woke up with a headache, a parched mouth, and a reminder of an old habit. But now, gratitude fills my chest. I unroll my yoga mat, appreciating how small rituals keep me grounded when everything else falls apart.
I shift from a sun salutation to the warrior pose, breathing deeply, and for once, it reaches my lungs. It doesn't get caught in the panic that used to live permanently in my throat. Sixty days ago, I would have laughed at the idea of starting my day with yoga and meditation. I can't imagine surviving without it now.
Morning air drifts through the window, bringing the scent of pine and crisp October air to wake me up. Georgia autumns are a reminder that cold passes. Recovery is similar. It’s hard at first, but easier in time.
After thirty minutes of movement that feels more like prayer than exercise, I transition to the dining hall. Breakfast is steel-cut oats with fresh berries, real maple syrup, and coffee that doesn't taste like it was filtered through dirty socks. The kind of wholesome fuel that makes my body remember it's capable of more than just processing poison.
"Morning, sunshine," Denny greets me as I settle at our usual table. He's been here eighty-three days now, and the transformation is remarkable. The haunted look in his eyes has been replaced by what appears to be peace to me.
"Morning. Sleep okay?" I return, focusing on the fruit salad in front of me.
"Like a baby. You?"
"Better than I have in years." It's true. Sleep used to be either impossible or a chemically induced unconsciousness that always left me feeling worse than before. These days, it's actual rest.
I head to my usual library spot after breakfast, sitting in a leather chair by the window. I’m reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s book about transforming suffering. He explains Buddhist ideas and philosophy in a way I understand, despite my complicated spiritual background. Closing the book, I trace a small scar on my wrist, a reminder of past struggles and my journey now.
"When another person makes you suffer, it is because he suffers deeply within himself, and his suffering is spilling over. He does not need punishment; he needs help."
I read the passage again, thinking of Richard, my stepfather. I've carried hatred for him for over thirty years. But sixty days sober, I can almost see him drowning in his own pain. I remember one Christmas Eve, when he slammed the door after a muffled apology, pain spilling over his face. It doesn’t excuse what he did, but understanding might help me let go of my own pain.
The meditation session that follows, after my quiet time with Thich Nhat Hanh, is twenty minutes of sitting with breath and thoughts, learning to observe them without being controlled by them. Bruce calls it "making friends with your mind," and slowly, day by day, I'm learning that the chaos in my head doesn't have to drive the bus.
After meditation, I walk toward the phone booth for my morning call to Rhea. There have been sixty days of one-sided conversations, and every time feels like a gamble. My thumb hesitates over the last digit, as if the universe might whisper a clue about what she truly feels. Still, hope stirs in my chest that she's listening to my messages, even though I understand why she can't respond.
The phone rings once, twice, three times before her voicemail picks up. Her voice still sends electricity through my system, even filtered through phone speakers and reduced to a recorded greeting.
"Hey, baby. Day sixty. I had this song stuck in my head all night. Not one that exists yet, but a new one that’s been building for weeks." I settle into the comfort of talking to her, even when she can’t talk back.
I pause, trying to find the words to explain what's been happening in my head lately. Music has always been my way of processing emotions, but the melodies that have come to me in recovery are different, cleaner, and more honest.
