Media Secret: Hidden Johansson

The Weight of Stability

The drive back to my mom's house felt longer than it should have. The Pacific Coast Highway stretched endlessly before me, the ocean on one side, the cliffs on the other, the evening sun sinking low on the horizon. Normally, this view calmed me, but today, it felt hollow. The weight of my conversation with Florence was still fresh, an ache I couldn't quite shake.

As I pulled into the driveway, the familiar comfort of home felt muted. The sprawling house, the manicured garden, it all seemed too perfect, too serene for the chaos inside my head. I killed the engine, sitting in the car for a moment longer.

I had imagined this day so differently—Florence and I reconnecting, maybe even figuring out what our future looked like. Instead, I was grappling with the reality of her being with someone else. With Charlie.

The house was quiet as I stepped inside, the only sound coming from the faint hum of the ocean through the open windows. Mom wasn't home yet—probably caught up in another film shoot or meeting. For once, I was grateful for the silence.

I tossed my keys on the table and wandered aimlessly through the house, the empty rooms echoing the emptiness I felt inside. My mind replayed the afternoon over and over—the way Florence had looked at me, the softness in her voice when she told me about Charlie. I wanted to be angry, to feel betrayed, but all I felt was sadness. She deserved happiness, even if it wasn't with me.

The word kept circling in my head like a vulture, picking at the raw edges of everything I thought I'd healed from. Stable. Florence had said it so easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it explained everything, like it justified all of it.

Stable.

I was sitting in the empty living room, the only light coming from the moon reflecting. The whole house was dark, shadows creeping in from every corner, but I hadn't bothered turning on the lights. Didn't need them. The darkness suited me right now. Matched what was going on inside.

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to erase the image of Florence saying it, her eyes soft but resolute. She hadn't meant to hurt me. I knew that. But damn if she hadn't driven a knife right into my chest with that one word.

I stood up suddenly, pacing the length of the room, my thoughts spiraling faster than I could keep up with. Every step felt heavier, like I was dragging my entire body through mud. I ran a hand through my hair, yanking at the roots, trying to distract myself from the rage bubbling beneath the surface.

Stable.

What the hell did that even mean? That I wasn't? That I never had been? Sure, I'd been through hell. I'd dragged myself through trauma and therapy and memories that felt like they'd crush me. But I was still here. I was still standing. Wasn't that enough? Didn't that count for something?

The anger hit me full force, surging up from the pit of my stomach. I clenched my fists, knuckles white, teeth grinding together as I tried to hold it in. But it was too much. It had been building for too long, and now, with that one word, it had snapped something in me.

I kicked the coffee table, hard, sending it sliding across the floor with a loud crash. The vase that had been sitting on top shattered into pieces, glass scattering across the hardwood, but I didn't care. It wasn't enough. It didn't even come close to the release I needed.

The silence that followed felt deafening, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing. I stared at the broken shards of glass on the floor, feeling just as shattered, just as scattered.

Stable.

Of course, she wanted stable. Who wouldn't? I wasn't an idiot. I knew what I looked like from the outside. A mess. A guy still trying to claw his way out of the past. Someone who couldn't even handle New Year's Eve without nearly breaking down. And she had found Charlie—good, dependable, unbroken Charlie. Someone she didn't have to worry about. Someone who wasn't haunted by memories of war, of death, of loss.

I bent down, picking up a piece of broken glass, turning it over in my hands. The sharp edges pressed into my skin, but I barely felt it. I was numb.

I'd spent a year in Switzerland trying to fix myself, trying to become the version of me that I thought I needed to be. But now, standing here, I realized that no amount of therapy, no amount of work on myself, was ever going to change the fact that I wasn't the guy Florence needed.

The guy she needed was stable.

And I wasn't.

The truth of it hit me harder than anything else. I wasn't stable. I'd spent so much time trying to prove to myself that I could be, but maybe it was all for nothing. Maybe that part of me was gone, left behind somewhere in the desert with the Kingston triplets, buried under the weight of memories I couldn't escape.

I gripped the piece of glass tighter, the sharp sting of it slicing into my palm as blood trickled down my wrist. The pain was real. Physical. Something I could focus on, something I could control. But it didn't compare to the ache in my chest, the way Florence's words kept playing in my mind on an endless loop.

She had said she loved me once. And I had believed her. I'd held onto that love like it was the only thing keeping me anchored to this world. But love wasn't enough. Not when you weren't enough. Not when you couldn't give her what she needed.

I threw the piece of glass across the room, watching as it shattered against the wall, joining the rest of the mess. The physical destruction mirrored the internal chaos, but it still wasn't enough. Nothing would be.

The door opened behind me, and I turned, expecting to see Mom. But instead, it was Katie. She must've gotten the key from her or maybe she'd sensed something was wrong. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the broken furniture, the shattered glass, and finally, me—standing there with blood dripping from my hand.

"Jesus, Tom," she said softly, stepping closer. "What the hell happened?"

I shook my head, unable to speak. What could I say? That the woman I loved was with someone else? That I was a mess, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise?

Katie didn't press me. She just moved quietly to the kitchen, grabbing a towel and some bandages from the drawer. She came back to me, taking my hand and wrapping it gently, her fingers careful but firm.

"You're bleeding," she said, stating the obvious. Her voice was calm, steady. She didn't ask why or how. She just dealt with the facts.

I watched her work, the silence between us heavy but comforting in a strange way. She didn't need me to explain. She already knew. We'd both seen the worst of life. We both understood the weight of carrying things too heavy for words.

"Florence?" she asked after a while, without looking up from my hand.

I nodded, swallowing hard, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. "She's with..."

Katie looked up then, her eyes softening with understanding. She didn't say anything, just nodded slightly as if that was all the explanation she needed.

"I tried," I said, my voice breaking a little. "I thought... I thought I was getting better. I thought I could... be enough."

Katie's eyes met mine, her expression unreadable for a moment before she spoke. "You are enough, Tom. But you're also human. And humans break sometimes. We're not always what other people want us to be."

The words hit me harder than I expected, cutting through the fog of anger and pain. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that I wasn't broken beyond repair. But right now, all I could see was the wreckage.

Katie stood up, wiping her hands on the towel. "You'll get through this. You always do."

I nodded, even though I wasn't sure if I believed her. But for now, it was enough that she was here, that she hadn't given up on me, even when I felt like I was giving up on myself.

As she cleaned up the mess, I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall, the ache in my chest still as raw as ever. The word stable lingered, a constant reminder of everything I wasn't. But maybe—just maybe—it didn't have to define me.

Maybe I could be something else. Something better.

But right now, it didn't feel like it.