Page 21 of Never Enough
“Where are you going?” My voice is lost to him, drowned out by the pounding of the bass. Alex doesn’t hear me.
I’m left standing there, caught between the man whose hands claim what they haven’t earned and the man who owns my soul but doesn’t know it.
Alex disappears into the throng, and my heart clenches at the sight. This isn’t how our story is supposed to go. His intense gaze sends me hints of his thoughts, and I’d a thousand times rather chase his’s allusive self than stay.
I peel myself away from the stranger to get to him.Alex.Everything fades into the background as I slip out into the cool night air. My gaze sweeps the backyard until it lands on him.
Alex stands alone, a shadow among the silhouettes of swaying trees, his eyes fixed upward at the vast stars above. He looks so contemplative.
“Alex,” I whisper, though I doubt he hears me. He doesn’t stir, doesn’t acknowledge my presence, but I inch closer anyway, drawn to him like always.
His profile is etched with sorrow. It’s a look I recognize, one that brings back a flood of memories—dark, heavy moments when he seemed so far out of reach, fighting demons only he could see. I remember sitting next to him on cold benches, offering silentsupport and wishing I could chase away the storm clouds that gathered in his eyes.
“Hey,” I say softly, settling beside him on the grass, our shoulders almost touching. The night air brushes against my skin, carrying whispers of unease, but I push them aside, focusing on the here and now. “Is everything okay?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and I resist the urge to fill the silence. Instead, I place my hand gently on his arm, grounding him and myself. We sit there, side by side.
“Sorry,” he finally murmurs. “I needed air.”
“Me too,” I breathe out, not sure if I’m lying or telling the truth. Maybe I did need the air. The space to think, to feel, and to be near him.
“Sometimes, it’s all too much, you know?”
I nod, even though he’s still staring at the sky, because I understand. I’ve seen him like this before—the shadows, the sadness, the untold burdens—and it never gets easier to witness. But I’m here, ready to stand by him, even if all I provide is my presence.
“Thank you,” he says after another stretch of silence, turning to look at me for the first time since I sat down. His eyes are a turbulent sea of green and brown, and I’m swept up in the current, willing to drown if it means I bring him back.
“For what?” I ask, lost in the depths of his gaze.
“For following me out here. For caring.” He offers a half-smile.
“Always,” I reply, squeezing his arm gently.
I can’t explain it, but I feel an undeniable connection to him. It’s something I can’t let go, no matter what. He’s the only person I’ve ever truly felt close to.
I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where we start to heal. Just Alex and me, and the silent understanding that we are each other’s calm.
I press my knees to my chest to avoid getting my legs wet into the dew-dampened grass.
Without looking at me, he asks, “D-d-did y-you enjoy dancing with h-him?” He’s probing for something deeper, something that might hurt him. I just know it.
“No,” I admit. It’s the truth. “It was just a dance.”
“Ah.” He nods but doesn’t look convinced. There’s more he wants to say. I can feel it. Yet we sit in silence, the kind that speaks volumes.
Minutes stretch between us, laden with unsaid thoughts and unshed tears. When he finally talks again, his words are laced with vulnerability. “C-Celeste isn’t what I want. Not really.”
“Then why?” My heart races as I dare to ask.
“Because…” He pauses, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. It’s nervous habit I haven’t seen him do since I first met him. It givesme hope that old Alex shines through. “B-Because, sometimes, it’s easier to w-wear a mask than to f-face what’s underneath. But m-masks slip. They’re s-slipping now.”
I reach out, brushing my fingers against his hand. Neither of us bring up his stuttering. I don’t care about it, nor did I ever. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a truth there, raw and exposed yet beautiful in its honesty.
“You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.” My voice trembles, echoing my racing heart. A part of me fears this moment. That this confession might break us, but another yearns to mend whatever has fractured inside him.
He looks at me, truly looks at me, and it feels like he’s seeing right through to my soul. “I know.”
“Then stop,” I plead. “Let yourself be happy, even if it’s not with me.” My lips quiver as I speak the last words, a sacrificial offering on the altar of his happiness.