Through the Glass

Chapter 17

Eliza sat in the large circle with the rest of the group, her eyes briefly flitting over the others before settling on her lap. The air in the room had shifted—something quieter, more contemplative, had taken root since the retreat's beginning. They had all peeled back so many layers, confronted so many hidden parts of themselves. Yet here they were, together, having faced those truths.

Her heart still felt heavy from the revelations of the past few days—especially the one she shared with Connor. That night at the hospital... it had haunted her for years. But somehow, the shared connection with him had dulled some of the sharp edges of that memory. She had been alone in that grief for so long, and now it was like someone had reached in and said, I understand.

Eliza squeezed her hands together, feeling the familiar twist of anxiety in her stomach. She could sense something significant was about to happen, that there was one final moment still hanging in the air before the retreat came to a close. She glanced at Connor, who sat across from her, his guitar leaning against his chair, a contemplative look on his face. His calm, steady presence was grounding, though she couldn't help but notice the storm that still brewed beneath the surface.

They hadn't talked much after the revelation about their shared past. They'd both been caught up in the emotional current of it all, silently processing the weight of what it meant. Eliza had spent most of the night replaying her memories of the hospital, of her brother's death, and of Connor—his bloodied hand, his quiet words. In a way, it felt like fate had drawn them together all those years ago, only to bring them back together now.

Her gaze drifted out the window, where the late morning sun spilled through the glass, casting long shadows across the room. The warmth of the light was a contrast to the cool air inside, and for a moment, Eliza allowed herself to relax into the peacefulness of it.

But even as she tried to center herself, her mind kept returning to Connor. She couldn't stop thinking about the connection they had forged, how easily they had fallen into each other's lives. It wasn't just the shared trauma—it was something more, something deeper. She had never felt so seen, so understood by another person. And yet, there was still that voice in the back of her mind, the one that told her not to get too close, not to let herself become too attached.

You can't rely on anyone, the voice whispered. They'll just leave, like everyone else.

Eliza took a deep breath, trying to push those thoughts aside. She had come here to heal, to let go of the burdens she had carried for so long. And she had done that, in part. But healing wasn't linear, she reminded herself. It wasn't something that happened all at once. It was a process, a journey that took time. She wasn't there yet, but she was closer than she had been before.

Her attention snapped back to the present when Tori's voice broke the silence, inviting anyone who felt ready to share one last reflection or moment of insight. Eliza's pulse quickened. She knew that Connor was going to share something—he had mentioned his guitar earlier, though she hadn't asked what he planned to play. Still, a part of her was nervous for him. She knew how much he struggled with feeling like he didn't belong, how hard it was for him to put himself out there.

Eliza watched as Connor picked up his guitar, his fingers brushing over the strings in a familiar, absentminded way. She could sense his nerves, though his face betrayed little emotion. He glanced up briefly, their eyes meeting for just a second, and in that moment, Eliza squeezed his hand, offering him the same silent support he had given her.

When he started to play, the soft strum of his guitar filled the room, the melody weaving through the air like a gentle breeze. Eliza closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, feeling the tension in her body slowly start to ease. The song was slow, tender, with a melancholy undertone that mirrored so much of what they had all been feeling during the retreat. And yet, within that sadness, there was hope—a quiet, persistent hope that maybe things could get better, that maybe they could find peace in the aftermath of everything.