6 months later
Zac had held on for as long as he could. His mother's health had always been fragile, but when her condition declined rapidly, even the round-the-clock care from her live-in nurse couldn't stop the inevitable. Watching the woman who raised him slip further each day triggered something deep within—a pain he couldn't control, couldn't fix. And for a man like Zac, helplessness was unbearable.
He started drinking again.
It began with quiet sips in the garage, then became a nightly ritual—whiskey to silence the grief, numb the stress, and push down the guilt. Soon, Fatima's calls went unanswered, her texts left on read. He avoided her, even when he ached to lean on her.
Fatima tried. God, she tried. She came by his mother's house with warm meals and comforting words, only to be met with Zac's silence or worse—his distance. He wasn't cruel, but he wasn't himself either. The soft man who used to kiss her forehead in the kitchen, the protector who once listened so intently to her dreams of opening more locations, had receded behind bloodshot eyes and unfinished bottles.
But Fatima was not a woman easily broken.
While Zac spiraled, Fatima poured herself into her work. Wilson's Pharmacy, her baby, had grown into a successful chain of three stores across the city. Her team adored her. She was seen as a healer, a leader—an advocate in the community for accessible care and holistic treatment. And yet, behind her professional poise, her heart cracked a little more each time Zac pushed her away. After all the promises of not being the man he once was. If she just gave him another chance. They had only been living together for six months before his mother took a turn.
One night, she dropped off a bag of herbal sleep aids, an electrolyte pack, and a note.
The sound of birds outside did nothing to ease the ache pounding through Zac's skull. He groaned, rolling over in the rumpled sheets that smelled faintly of whiskey and something sterile—maybe regret. His alarm had gone off an hour ago. He'd hit snooze six times.
Light crept through the blinds, casting thin lines across the half-empty bottle of bourbon on his nightstand. He sat up, slow and stiff, reaching for it out of habit before his hand froze midair.
Something else caught his eye.
Fatima's note. Still right where she'd left it.
Folded, slightly creased, with his name written in her neat, looping handwriting. He hadn't read it. Couldn't. Not yet.
Zac dropped his hand and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room was quiet. Too quiet. No beeping from his mom's oxygen machine down the hall. No soft footsteps from the nurse. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to move. Moving back in to his family home to keep an eye on his mother was not an easy decision for him to make. Leaving his and Fatima's home they got together was a tough decision.
"Groceries delivered Wednesday. Heat up the soup. Love you." She still sent food for him even though she hasn't talked to him.
He hadn't touched it.
Instead, he'd drunk through most of those nights, nursing the hollow inside him while the nurse upstairs did her best to hold it all together. She'd been kind. Quiet. Never said anything when he came home glassy-eyed or disappeared into the backyard with a bottle.
But last night, even she had said something.
"Zac... you're going to lose more than just your mother if you keep going like this."
Zac sat on the old patio bench his dad built years ago, the wood sun-bleached and splintering beneath him. His phone rested in his palm. No missed calls. No texts.
He opened his camera roll. Scrolled.
Photos of Fatima in their living room, painting nails and pretending to hate being spoiled. A selfie of him and Fatima at the lake, her curls wet and wild, her mouth open in mid-laugh. He remembered how she'd splashed him right after that, dared him to "live a little."
He'd forgotten how good that felt. Laughing.
He closed the photo app and finally, finally, unfolded the note she left weeks ago.
"Grey—
I love you. I want to be here for you. But not like this. You're disappearing, and I can't keep reaching into the dark if you don't want to be pulled out. And I will not watch you drown so please take care of your soul. Please. You are worth saving.
–Jade"
He read it twice.
Then a third time.
And something in him cracked.
His mother was asleep when he entered. Her breathing was shallow, labored, her skin pale. The nurse was adjusting her IV, quietly humming something familiar. Gospel.
"She had a rough night," the nurse whispered.
Zac nodded. He didn't speak.
He pulled up a chair beside the bed and took his mother's frail hand in his.
"I'm sorry, Ma," he said softly. "I know I've been... off. I just didn't know how to hold all this. Watching you fade, it's been killin' me."
Her fingers twitched slightly in his hand, and that was enough to make his throat tighten.
"I miss her," he said suddenly. "Fatima. I messed that up."
The nurse gave him a small glance but said nothing.
"She showed up for me. Over and over. And I... I just drank her love away."
The room was silent except for the wheeze of the oxygen. And the truth settling over him like a weight.
Zac sat in his truck outside the community church. He hadn't been here in months. Used to come once a week with his mom and Fatima. Pastor Williams had always left the doors open.
He wasn't sure why he came today—just that the noise in his head had finally grown too loud.
Inside, it was empty. Quiet in the way only churches can be. The kind of quiet that forces you to hear yourself.
He sat in the third pew and stared up at the stained glass.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said out loud. "I've lost myself. I've lost her. I'm scared I'm gonna lose everything."
His voice cracked.
"I didn't mean to drown, but I did. And now I don't even know how to ask for help."
A shuffling behind him. It was Pastor Williams, soft-spoken and calm as always.
"You just did."
Zac wiped his face with the back of his hand, ashamed. "I don't even know where to start."
"You start by standing still. Owning it. Then you reach out. The rest follows."
Zac nodded slowly, chest heavy with both guilt and the smallest flicker of hope.
– Later That Night
The house was quiet again, but Zac was clearer now. He cleaned the kitchen. Took out the trash. Found the soup Fatima had left in the fridge—still good. He heated it slowly, stirred it gently, and sat down to eat for the first time in days.
Not much. But enough.
He grabbed his phone again. No liquor in his system now. No numbness to hide behind.
He pulled up Fatima's name and stared at the message box.
Typed.
Zac:
I'm sorry I pushed you away when all you did was try to hold me steady. You didn't deserve that. I'm trying to be better, even if it's late. I miss you.
He stared at the message.
Deleted the last sentence.
Typed something else.
Zac:
I'm trying to get out of the dark. Thank you for leaving the light on.
He hit send.
And then—for the first time in a long time—he let himself hope that maybe the man Fatima believed in wasn't gone forever.
A/N
Lord 😂😂 it's been so long since I looked at this book, but here is a chapter for yall imma try my best to get back to it so bear with me.
Oh and don't forget to vote ✌🏽
