Page 98 of Every November

Evan

All I can think is: I am so hurt, and I love him.

I am so heartbroken for him, and I love him.

I am so angry, and I love him.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

Everything boils down to that one truth: I love him.

The thoughts loop in my head, each one contradicting the last, each one equally true. I’m sitting in this hotel room with tears drying on my cheeks and my heart beating too fast and Marcus is right there, five feet away, looking at me like he’s waiting for me to decide his fate. And I don’t know how to hold all these feelings at once—the anger and the love, the hurt and the understanding, the betrayal and the desperate, aching need to close the distance between us and never let go.

I put my head in my hands once again, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest. Marcus doesn’t move, but I can feel him watching me, can sense the tension radiating off him, yet he stays where he is on the opposite bed. Giving me space. Letting me process.

Knowing about his depression now doesn’t erase the months I spent struggling, missing him, hoping he was okay, fearing for his well-being.

And all that time, he was struggling too. In worse ways than I was.

How do I hold space for both the hurt I experienced at being shut out and the heartbreak of knowing he was suffering alone? How can I be mad at him for disappearing when I understand why he did it? When I can see, now that he’s explained it, how his depression convinced him he was protecting me by staying away?

I lift my head and look at him. His arms are crossed over his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together, his eyes are red-rimmed, his face blotchy from crying. He looks exhausted. He looks like he’s been carrying this weight for months, finally set it down, and doesn’t know what to do with his empty hands. My heart cracks open all over again because I love him. God, I love him so much it hurts. I love him even though I don’t know how we fix this, but there’s no world in which I won’t try.

“Come here,” I request, patting the empty space beside me.

His face morphs to shock like he’s not sure if he should come to me, but slowly, he gets up and sits down beside me. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close enough that I could reach out and take his hand.

But I don’t. Not yet. I need to say this first now that I feel calmer.

“I need to ask you something, and I want the truth.”

“Okay.” He turns slightly to face me, giving me his full attention.

“How do I know this won’t happen again? Not the depression, but you shutting me out and deciding I’m better off without you? What actually changes? Because I can’t do this again, Marcus. I can’t survive another eleven months of silence. Hell, I don’t think I could survive a week of it at this point. A day.”

He doesn’t answer right away, which I appreciate more than an instant reassurance because hopefully he’s actually considering his response.

“Well, I’m always going to have hard days,” he starts. “Maybe hard months, though it’s never lasted this long before. I can’t promise you I’ll never struggle, because my depression is never going to just go away, but I can promise you what I’ll do differently when it happens.” He takes a breath, steadying himself. “I will tell you and I will keep going to therapy even on the days I want to cancel. I promise I’ll text you, even if it’s just ‘bad day’ so you don’t get shut out completely again. Ever.”

I study his face and find exhaustion, fear, and sincerity. I know his depression isn’t just magically gone forever, and we’ll likely deal with this again in the future, but I hope we do it together like he’s saying. I hope he lets me be there for him.

“I need small steps. I can’t just fall back into everything overnight, but I believe you.”

“You do?” he asks, surprised.

“Yes, because you have nothing to feel ashamed of with me. Not your depression, not your family, none of it. You don’t have to be okay for me to want you. My love isn’t something you have to earn on your good days.”

His eyes fill again, and I don’t look away.

“So stop trying to protect me from the hard parts, okay? I don’t want the edited version of you, Marcus. I want all of you, and that includes the bad days, the hard days, the days you can’t get out of bed. Just let me love you through them. That’s all I’m asking. Please?”

Tears streak his cheeks again at my words, and I lean out to wipe one with my thumb.

He lets out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “Edited. You know Josh said almost the same thing to me? That I’ve been editing myself my whole life. Cutting out the parts I didn’t think anyone could handle.”

“Then stop,” I press gently. “At least with me.”

“I’ve never felt safe enough to because no one has ever cared. No one has ever wanted to help me shoulder this.”