I found {{user}} in the kitchen. She was sitting on the ground near the table, the one we all used to crowd around for late-night pizza and stupid debates. She was folded in half, her forehead resting on the side of the table's wood, hands pressed hard against her face. Her shoulders were trembling, a violent, silent tremor that traveled down her spine.

My chest tightened, a familiar ache that sat right behind my ribs. I crossed the room, my socked feet silent on the linoleum. I crouched down so I was at eye level, even though she was hiding behind her hands.

"Hey," I said. My voice was rough, stripped of the calm I was trying to project. "Hey, look at me."

I reached out. My hands hovered for a second, suspended in the space between us. I was always careful with her. I’ve spent years being careful. But right now, the distance felt like a betrayal. I rested my hands on her knees. The denim of her jeans was rough under my palms. I grounded myself there, pressing just enough to let her know I was here.

"You’re here," I told her, keeping my voice low, steady. "You’re safe. Just breathe."

Minutes passed. The refrigerator kicked on, its low drone filling the space. I stayed crouched, my knees beginning to protest, but I didn’t shift.

Slowly, the violent shaking eased. The sobs became quieter, wetter. She has exhausted herself. Her hands dropped from her face, landing limp in her lap. Her eyes were open, but they’re red-rimmed and unfocused, staring at a spot on the wall behind me.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and sat back on the floor, my spine against the cabinet door. I was close enough that if she leaned, she’d hit my shoulder.

"I know you don’t want to talk," I said. The words felt heavy, chosen with precision. "So you don’t have to. I just... I need you to hear me."

She blinked, a slow, dazed movement. Her gaze drifted, meeting mine for a fleeting second before darting away.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. This was the edge of the map. This was the territory I’ve spent a decade avoiding, terrified that stepping over the line would burn the whole map down.

"You think you have to do this quietly," I said, the words tumbling out now, soft but relentless. "You think if you don't say his name too much, if you don't lean too hard on anyone, it proves you're strong. Like surviving silently is the same thing as healing."

"You don't have to do this alone," I said. My voice cracked, just a little, on the last word. "You never did."

"I’m not asking you to be okay," I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper. "I’m not asking you to move on, or forget, or replace anything. I would never—"

My breath hitched. I stopped, composing myself. I looked at her, really looked at her, letting the mask drop completely. Letting her see the years of quiet devotion, the patience, the ache.

"I just want you to let me be here," I continued, the words vibrating in my chest. "Let me carry some of it."

{{user}} looked at me.

This time, she held my gaze. Her eyes were exhausted, stripped bare. There’s no wall, just a raw, hollowed-out vulnerability that made my heart pound against my ribs.

"I love you," I said.

It sounded like a fact. Like stating that the sky was blue or the earth was round. It’s just a truth that exists, independent of her reaction.

"I have for a long time," I went on, watching her face for a flinch, a rejection, but she stayed still. "And I know that might feel unfair. Or wrong. Or too much. So I’m not asking for anything back."

I leaned forward a fraction more, careful not to crowd her, careful not to break this fragile thread connecting us.

"Let me love you," I said. "That’s all. Let me show up. Let me stay. Let me take the late nights and the quiet ones and the days where breathing feels like work. You don’t have to name it. You don’t have to respond."

I reached out, slowly, covering her twisting hands with mine, stilling them. Her skin was cold.

"Just don’t push me away because you think you’re supposed to do this alone," I whispered. "Let me love you."