ERASING THE PAIN

THE SILENCE WE SHARED

Andrew's eyes, usually so guarded, look different tonight. There's something unspoken, something simmering beneath the surface, and it sends a chill through me. It's not until he speaks that I realize how much weight he's been carrying.

"I've known for a long time where you were," Andrew begins, his voice tight but controlled. I freeze, not sure I heard him right.

"What?" My throat tightens, heart racing in disbelief. "You knew?"

He nods, swallowing hard. "One of our classmates from med school told me. She saw you at the halfway house when she was volunteering."

The air between us thickens with the revelation, and my mind reels, trying to process his words. He knew where I was the whole time?

"I wanted to come see you, Callie. So many times. But... I didn't know how. I didn't know if you wanted me to," he says, his voice laced with pain. "You disappeared, and I thought you needed space. I thought... maybe you didn't want me in your life anymore."

I feel the ground shift beneath me. Andrew knew. He knew all along.

He looks away, his gaze falling to the floor as he continues. "That's why I switched to psych. I couldn't help you then, but I thought... maybe if I became a psychiatrist, I could understand. I could figure out how to help people like you, people who were drowning but couldn't reach out for help."

His confession leaves me speechless. I never knew the depth of his struggle, how much my leaving had affected him. He didn't just lose me—he lost himself in the process, and yet somehow, he found a way to turn that pain into something meaningful.

"I wanted to be there for you, Callie," he says, his voice breaking slightly. "I just didn't know how. And then, by the time I had the courage to show up, it felt like too much time had passed. Like I had already failed you."

My heart twists with a mix of guilt and sorrow. All this time, I thought I had been suffering alone, but Andrew had been carrying his own burden, silently, just like me.

Tears well up in my eyes as the weight of his words sinks in. "You didn't fail me, Andrew. You never did."

He shakes his head, still unable to meet my gaze. "I felt like I did. I felt like I should have done more, should have fought harder to find you. But I didn't. I kept thinking, 'What if I show up and she doesn't want to see me?' And I let that fear control me."

The vulnerability in his voice cracks something open inside of me. All this time, I'd been so focused on my own pain that I didn't realize how much he had suffered, too. We had both been trapped—me in my grief and him in his fear.

I reach for his hand, and this time, he doesn't pull away. "Andrew... you didn't need to become a psychiatrist for me."

He looks up at me, his eyes filled with the kind of sadness that runs deep. "Maybe not, but I did it for us—for the hope that one day, if you ever needed me again, I'd be able to help."

The confession sends a rush of warmth and sorrow through me. All these years, I thought I was protecting him by staying away, when in reality, he was preparing to save me in his own way.

My grip tightens around his hand. "I never wanted to leave you, Andrew. I thought I was sparing you from the mess I had become, but all I did was create more distance."

He exhales shakily, his fingers gently brushing against mine. "I never stopped thinking about you. Every time I helped a patient, I wondered if I could have helped you if I'd just been braver."

My chest tightens, and I feel the sting of tears at the back of my eyes. There's so much I want to say, so much I need to tell him—but for now, I let the silence fill the space between us, letting the weight of our shared pain linger.

After a moment, I gather the courage to speak. "You don't need to fix me, Andrew. I'm still healing, but I don't need a psychiatrist. I need you."

His eyes soften at my words, and the tension that has been building between us for so long seems to shift into something else—something warmer, more hopeful. He leans in slightly, and I can feel the steady thrum of my heartbeat as the distance between us disappears.

"I've always been here for you, Callie," he whispers, his breath brushing against my skin. "I just didn't know how to show it before."

For the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—we can start again. That maybe, after all the pain and all the years apart, we can heal together.

His hand comes up to cradle my face, his touch tender and gentle, and I close my eyes as I lean into the warmth of his palm. There's no rush, no pressure, just the quiet promise of something new—a second chance we never thought we'd get.

Before I can second-guess it, Andrew closes the space between us, his lips brushing against mine in a soft, tentative kiss. It's familiar yet different—like rediscovering something we both thought was lost.

When we pull away, his forehead rests against mine, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't feel the weight of my grief pressing down on me. Instead, there's a lightness—a flicker of hope.

"I'm still scared," I whisper, my voice trembling.

"So am I," he admits, his thumb brushing gently against my cheek. "But I'd rather be scared with you than alone."

I let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising me with how natural it feels. "Together, then?"

"Together," Andrew agrees, his lips curving into a small, hopeful smile.

And for the first time in years, I believe that maybe—just maybe—we can find our way back to each other.

There's no rush in his movements, no urgency to fill the space between us. Instead, there's a tenderness that feels new, like we're both rediscovering what it means to love after all the pain. In this quiet moment, I realize that healing isn't about erasing the past—it's about finding strength in each other to move forward. Together, we're no longer defined by the scars we carry, but by the hope we build for the future. This is how we heal—slowly, patiently, with love that understands the weight of every step we've taken.