Page 56 of Giving Chase

You spent fifteen years watching me try to kill myself. Fifteen years cleaning up my messes. Protecting me. Believing in me. Loving me despite everything. And how did I repay that love? By disappearing. By watching your life from a safe distance, too cowardly to even tell you I was finally the man you always believed I could be.

Chase shifts in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep reading.

The truth? You were the bravest person in my story. You loved me enough to drive me to those gates. To let me go. To say 'enough.'

I'd like to say getting clean was about you. That I did it to win you back. But that would be another lie. I got clean because you were right – I had to do it for me. Had to find out who Chase was without the drugs. Without the drama. Without using you as a safety net.

Five years sober, and I'm finally facing some hard truths:

I hid behind our 'no strings' rule because commitment terrified me more than addiction.

I used our history as an excuse to avoid dealing with my present.

I hurt you. Repeatedly. Deliberately. Unforgivably.

And even after getting clean, I was too much of a coward to face you.

So I'm saying it now: I'm sorry, Eliza. For the rehabs that didn't stick. For Chicago. For your tree. For every time I made you choose between loving me and saving yourself. For five years of silence when you deserved so much more.

The tears fall freely now, dropping onto the paper. The ink smears under them.

I convinced myself we were over. That too much pain lived in our history. I watched you build your empire from afar and told myself it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner.

Then I saw you at that photo shoot, and every lie I'd told myself about being over you shattered in an instant.

I'm not asking for another chance. I haven't earned that. But I need you to know that the man you see now – the one who's been clean for five years, who can finally look himself in the mirror – he exists because you were strong enough to take me to those gates. To let me walk through them alone.

You once told me I was stronger than my addiction. You believed that even when I didn't. Even when I couldn't. Thank you for that belief. For every time you held me together. For every time you let me fall. For that final drive that saved my life.

I love you. I've loved you for twenty years. But for the first time, I love you without needing you to save me.

Always, Chase

The paper slips from my fingers, landing silently on the hardwood floor. Chase hasn't moved from the doorway, giving me space I'm not sure I want anymore.

"Eliza?" His voice is barely a whisper.

I turn to look at him. Really look at him. The silver threading his beard. The clear green eyes. The steady hands that haven't shaken in five years.

"You read my interviews?"

A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Every one. Will says it was masochistic."

"You could have called. After the first year. After COVID. Any time."

"I know." He takes a careful step forward. "I thought... I really thought I'd lost the right to be in your life. That staying away was the only gift I had left to give you."

I stand, my legs steadier than they should be. "Twenty-three versions?"

He nods.

"And in every single one, you thought I needed your apology?"

"I—what?"

I close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching. "I never needed you to apologize, Chase. I needed you to live. That's all I've ever needed."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by something that looks a lot like hope.