Logan: Always real. Always yours.
She doesn’t reply.
She doesn’t have to.
I stay right here, on this worn-out couch in the middle of a messy apartment, staring at her name on my screen.
Waiting.
Because this is what it means to love her now.
To wait.
To hold space.
To be the one thing she can count on when everything else feels broken.
The sky is still dark when I blink awake, a faint line of light just starting to stretch across the horizon. Sunrise. Always the same time. Always the same reason.
It’s muscle memory now—engrained since the night Mac landed in the hospital. Some part of me refuses to rest properly, like if I sleep too long, I’ll miss something. Miss her. So, I rise before the city. Before the weight of waiting sets in.
I drag a hand over my face, the rasp of stubble grounding me. My body’s heavy—weeks of half-sleep etched into every muscle—but lying still feels worse. I need air. Motion. Something.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit there, momentarily disoriented. No clue how or when I got back here last night. Just shadows. Silence. And that hollow ache in my chest that’s becoming far too familiar. I scrub a hand through my hair and force myself to move. A quick shower—lukewarm, barely enough to chase off the night—but it wakes me up just enough.
The apartment is quiet when I step into the hallway, towel slung around my neck. A couple of the guys are still out cold, their soft breathing muffled by thin walls. They cleared space forme yesterday, no questions asked. Just like always. No pressure. Just loyalty.
I pull on clean sweats, a black tee, socks over damp feet, and grab a cap off the hook. Tug it low. My running shoes wait at the door like they already know what’s coming.
As I stretch out my calves, I catch movement—Sam heading out for his own morning routine. We nod in passing, silent understanding exchanged in a glance, and then I step out into the still-sleeping city. Old Town Portland hasn’t stirred yet. My footsteps echo down the sidewalk, steady and grounding. The rhythm is familiar. Comforting. It’s the only time I feel remotely in control—when the world is quiet and I can keep moving forward, one block at a time, without drowning. I follow the same path I always do. Past the boarded-up music store. Past the angel-wing mural, cracked and weathered but still standing. Past the bakery that always smells like cinnamon and nutmeg. By the time the sun crests the skyline, I’m pushing open the door to Patty’s Diner. The bell above the door sings its soft, familiar chime. Patty’s already behind the counter, pouring coffee like it’s some kind of religion. She looks up and smiles—that soft, no-nonsense, maternal kind of smile that sees through every lie.
“Logan Dale,” she says, shaking her head like she’s scolding one of her own. “You look like something the cat dragged in. And not even a fancy cat. One of those strays with attitude.” I manage a tired grin and slide onto my stool—the one I’ve sat in every morning for five weeks.
“Mornin’, Patty.”
She eyes me over the rim of her glasses, already reaching for a mug. “You sleep?”
I shake my head. “Couple hours. Not much.”
She hands me the coffee and plants a fist on her hip. “You keep running yourself into the ground like this, you’ll be the next one in a hospital bed.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I mutter, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug. “At least I’d be closer to her.”
Her gaze softens, her worry laced with something steadier. Unshakable. “That girl’s a fighter, baby. But she doesn’t need a ghost hovering around her. She needs you. Fed. Rested. Upright.”
I stare into the swirl of black coffee. “She remembered something yesterday.”
That gets her attention.
She leans in, every line in her face suddenly gentle. “Yeah?”
I nod, throat tightening. “Just flashes. A couch. Sunflowers. Laughter. But it was there. For a second, she was there. I saw her.”
Patty’s smile starts small, like it’s afraid to bloom too early. “Told you. That light’s still in her. You just keep showing up until she finds her way back.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My shoulders ease, just a little.
“Trying.”
