TW: suicidal thoughts, past tense.
"I'm sorry," Scott apologizes for the seventeenth time. He's offered to stop the music just as often, but there's no way I was letting that happen. Now that it's done, I'm tempted to play it through over and over again. First, though, I need to take a moment to breathe and calm down. I don't know what to say. Do I talk about the music? The lyrics? All the progress he's made? He wanted me to hear this. What does he need me to say? I reach for the laptop, but he stays my hand and leans me back into my seat by my shoulder. "No. Not again."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you up. I can leave if you send me a copy, or I can make do with iTunes." Like before.
He rubs a thumb gently and firmly against my face and shows me my own tears. "You're crying."
"I always cry," I shrug. I thought he might understand what it's like to be as used to that as I am, but he turns my shoulders toward him and searches my eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"You never used to." Yeah, well, that was then. He wipes the tears off my other cheek and pulls out a tissue to dry the rest from my face. I close my eyes, and he pats my eyelashes dry, pulls my hair from my face, and leaves a small kiss lingering on my forehead.
"I couldn't help it. The album is beautiful." I hoist myself up by Scott's shoulder. "I hope you know that." I could tell him everything I loved about it musically, but I'm looking for pride in his face as he thanks me, and I'm not seeing it. I'm looking for the reason he needed to watch me hear this.
"I can't comprehend how you made this," I tell him. "You're incredible."
"Yeah, if you like train wrecks."
"You're not the train wreck, Scott." He really is incredible. "You're the athlete who survives the train wreck with terrible injuries, is told he'll never run again, and proves everyone wrong by going to the Olympics." It's not even that much of an exaggeration. Scott had every reason to believe his singing career would run only downhill when Pentatonix ended, but now he's at the top of his field, among the very best in the world. The difference between physical injury and mental illness, though, is that depression drains your motivation, so it's difficult to accomplish even little things. "It's impossible enough writing and recording three number one albums without battling depression. I'm in awe of your determination."
"It's not like that. I'm not admirable or inspiring. I wasn't valiantly pushing through or whatever. Honestly, the only reason I ever got anything done for a long time was because I hated myself. I despised myself so much when I wasn't accomplishing anything that it forced me to work all the time, burn out, and keep working anyway until I couldn't lift my little finger if I tried."
"And Esther let you?" How could she prioritize Scott's productivity over Scott?
"Not even close. She literally forced me to go to Hawaii."
"Good for her."
"I tried to relax, but I couldn't turn my brain off. I mean..." He sighs heavily, and I find myself clutching his shirt. Just how much did he want to silence his thoughts? Because there are ways. "Esther never tried to stop me from working again after she found out the things I thought about on my beautiful balcony overlooking paradise."
I can't hug him tight enough. "I'm never leaving your side." I mean it.
"I would never do that to you." I can't even contemplate the horror of it. If I had lost Scott... no. No. "I'm safe. It's okay. You kept me safe. You've saved my life more than once." He rubs my back and I squeeze him like my own life depends on it. His voice is soft and eerily calm. "For all that I told myself you thought I was worthless, or you deserved it, or you wouldn't even care, I still knew it would be too cruel. I wouldn't want you to even wonder if you had any part in it."
I would rather be dead. I'm not crying anymore, just shaking. For years, I had no idea. How would I have found out? Who would have broken the news to me? Kirstie? Esther? Maybe the Internet would have told me before they got a chance. How would Alex have felt?
It would have been my fault. Not my fault in the sense that I caused it deliberately, or even that I could have known, but I would have shared in the guilt because there would have been a thousand things I could have done better to prevent it, to keep Scott from ever sinking that deep.
But he's alive. He's alive because he knew I would think like that and he didn't want me to, even after he thought I had betrayed him and lied to his face for months. He's alive, and he lived for me, at least in part. He lived through hell so I wouldn't have to.
"It's okay. I'm better. I'm much, much, much better, and if I ever go back to what I was, you can leave me." How can I ever leave him when there's a chance it could be for the last time? My breathing isn't quite right and I don't trust my voice, but I shake my head vigorously and he understands. "No matter how bad it is, Mitch, I swear I'll endure it. I don't want you to be afraid for me, and I definitely don't want that to be why you stay."
"Play it again," I squeak. I need to hear the words again and know he's okay. The music starts, and I can feel myself becoming calmer. I know how the song ends, and it makes every word mean something different. "You've come so far," I whisper.
There it is. The spark of pride I was looking for twinkles for a brief moment in his eyes. He wants me to know he's better. He feels accomplished, and rightly so. "You made it here, and I know you aren't finished yet, but you should be proud. You're gonna be okay. And even if you aren't, I'm not gonna leave you. Our son Wyatt deserves both his parents, don't you think?"
Scott is speechless. "I regretted leaving you long before I understood," I tell him. "I want you to know I can do better. Will you let me stay?"
Awe and wonder shape his face. "You don't... I..." He struggles for words. "Move in?" he asks, astounded. I nod, and he stares in wonder. In a split second, it shifts into anguish. "But I told you I love you."
"I still want to come back."
"You don't... I can't... You can't live here."
