“And maybe it wouldn’t help one little bit.”

I didn’t know much about psychoanalysis, but I was pretty sure that it didn’t work unless the subject was relatively honest. Sure, I could tell the truth—if I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a padded cell. **

Charlie and I sat staring at one another, eyes locked in a dead heat. Only moments ago, I’d been staring at my cereal instead, thinking about absolutely nothing at all. Charlie had been having a conversation with himself, as I’d not been particularly mentally present for it.

Just as it had been with us, every morning for the past three months.

But he was determined to upset my routine. The routine I’d developed to shield him from seeing the worst of me. And of course, I’d failed utterly in that attempt. He saw everything I tried to hide: all the pain, the loss, the confusion, and the aimlessness. And he gave me an ultimatum: Jacksonville or therapy.

“I just want you not to be miserable. It’s been months. No calls, no letters. You can’t keep waiting for him.” He took a deep breath. “You need to live your life, Bella.” **

That’s exactly what I wanted: to live out my meaningless existence without any more interference.

“I’m not waiting for anything. I’m not expecting anything. Ever,” I declared grimly. The entire conversation—the parts I’d been present for, anyway—had put me on the brink of tears, and I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat any longer. “I just want to be left in peace, Charlie! I’m living what’s left of my life, isn’t that enough?” I burst into wrenching sobs that echoed the overwhelming emptiness in my chest.

Charlie had never been one for outbursts of emotion, so it was to my intense surprise that I felt his strong, warm hand on my back. He wasn’t moving it; he made no other effort to comfort, but it was comforting.

I hadn’t been touched in months.

I had the vague impression of memories where people at school sort of skirted by me if my trajectory pushed near theirs. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to touch another person, and I’d thought I’d never know it again. I cried harder. I wasn’t making any noise anymore; there wasn’t air in my chest to push past my vocal cords. That made it worse somehow—that my sorrow didn’t even register a sound. All those months I spent silent, bottling it up. Now I wanted to let some of it out, and my body wouldn’t let me. I wanted to scream and sob my throat raw to make someone hear my pain, to know that it was real, he was real, we were real, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t draw breath to make it happen.

I was suffocating over a bowl of Rice Chex. It seemed as appropriate a death as any.

But I wasn’t dying, unfortunately. Somehow, my lungs surged and pulled oxygen from the air in great gulps. Charlie moved his hands to my shoulders and pulled me up into a hug. I clawed at his back; to get closer or push him away, I wasn’t sure, but he didn’t let go.

“What’s left of your life is so much more than you think, Bella. Don’t let him have it all! He isn’t worth it! I don’t want to keep watching you sleepwalk through everything you used to love doing.” All the stuttering awkwardness in his voice was gone, and I didn’t think I’d heard him talk like this, ever. It took me a moment to name it.

He was begging.

I might not have anything better than pieces of myself left, but that was something. I remembered how I thought to myself when he left that my capacity to love and all possible meaning for my existence were gone. I’d felt like the best thing I’d ever do in my life was done. I’d had one beautiful, all-consuming love story, and it was over. But then, no, I didn’t. He stole it—told me that the one great thing I’d accomplished wasn’t real. He told me it didn’t exist, and he didn’t exist, and then he’d destroyed or taken everything I owned that said otherwise. There was no great love, after all. Maybe there was still something for me. Charlie and I both knew that I wouldn’t take my own life—I would have long ago if I were planning on it—so maybe I could still do something with what was left.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll talk to someone,” I answered. I could find a way to be relatively honest. It might require some interesting metaphors along the way, but I thought I might be able to handle that. I could try, at least. What was the place I’d built around my mind anyway, if not a padded cell?

Charlie was silent for a minute, probably wondering if he’d heard me right, and then he sighed in relief. “Thank you, Bella. Thank you for trying.”