I trail off, unable to finish, but he understands. I can see it in the way his face crumbles, in the way he exhales slowly, as if theweight of this truth is pressing against his ribs. He moves closer, hesitates, then sits carefully on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing against mine.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. And somehow, those words mean more than I ever thought they could.
I swallow hard, feeling the ache spread deeper in my chest, tightening like a fist around my heart. My voice is barely a breath when I speak again. “I feel like I’ve lost him twice now,” I whisper. “Before I ever even got the chance to cherish it.”
The words hang between us, raw and fragile. His fingers tighten around mine, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. Because if I do, I know I’ll fall apart.
Sawyer has been the closest father figure I’ve ever had in my life. We often laugh, make jokes, and tease each other. But Sawyer is also the one person who sees the things I don’t say, the things I try to bury beneath sharp wit and forced smiles. He has never been overly affectionate, never one to say much, but I know his love exists in the way he looks out for me, in the way he steps in without asking when I need someone to lean on.
He clears his throat, like he’s searching for something to say, but when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, strained. “You deserved better,” he says quietly. “From the start, Isabella. You deserved… so much better.”
Sawyer exhales slowly, his fingers still wrapped around mine, grounding me in the weight of his presence. His voice, when it comes, is rough—worn down by something deeper than sorrow.
“Grief,” he murmurs, “I have learned, is really just love.”
I blink up at him, my vision blurred now, the dam breaking.
“It’s all the love you want to give but cannot,” he continues. “It’s love with no place to go.”
A sob slips from my lips before I can stop it. My chest caves under the truth of his words. I clutch his fingers tighter, as if holding onto something will keep me from unravelingcompletely.
Sawyer doesn’t flinch at my tears. He doesn’t offer meaningless reassurances, doesn’t tell me to be strong. Instead, he just sits with me in this unbearable weight.
“You can’t choose who you love,” he says, voice quieter now, like he’s speaking from a place of knowing. “Love isn’t a rational decision.” He shakes his head. “It’s okay to grieve lost loves, Isabella. It’s okay to feel it. To acknowledge it.”
Sawyer’s hand leaves mine, reaching instead for the small bag on the chair beside my bed. I watch as he unzips it, his movements slow but deliberate. Then, his fingers close around a small orange bottle, the label crinkled from being handled too many times.
The Prozac.
He studies it for a moment, turning it in his palm before his gaze flicks back to me. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is steady when he speaks.
‘‘This,’’ he says, holding up the bottle, ‘‘is disturbing your healing, Isabella.’’
My breath catches, but he doesn’t stop.
‘‘It’s numbing you,’’ he continues, his voice not unkind, but firm. ‘‘Mentally. Physically. It’s keeping you from feeling everything you need to feel. From grieving. From healing.’’
I swallow hard, my pulse stuttering. ‘‘Sawyer—’’
‘‘I’m not saying you don’t need help,’’ he cuts in gently, ‘‘but this… this isn’t helping you anymore. It’s just keeping you suspended, trapped between feeling and not feeling. Often psychiatrist prescribe SSRI blockers, without even fully examining someone. And you deserve more than that. You deserve to heal.’’
I shake my head, my throat thick with emotion. ‘‘I don’t know how to do this without it,’’ I admit, my voice breaking. ‘‘I don’t know how to sit with all of this, all of me, without something tosoften it.’’
Sawyer’s face softens, but there’s something unyielding in his eyes. ‘‘You don’t have to do it alone,’’ he says. ‘‘But you do have to do it. You have to let yourself feel, even when it hurts.’’
‘‘He saw you, didn’t he?’’
I freeze. My fingers curl into the thin hospital blanket, my breath coming shallow. I know who he means before he even says his name.
‘‘Aslanov,’’ Sawyer murmurs.
I close my eyes.
‘‘He acknowledged you,’’ he continues, voice measured. ‘‘And whether that was with bad intent in the beginning never mattered to you, because he saw you.’’
A sharp, aching inhale rattles through me.
Aslanov had seen me. In ways no one else ever had, in ways that made me feel like I existed beyond just the weight of my own survival. He had looked at me, not through me, not past me, not with pity or expectation. Just at me. And for someone like me, someone who had spent so much of her life invisible, that had been enough.
