"The Book Of Disquiet"
New York folded into its own skin, lights dimmed, streets thinned, the city's pulse softened to a gentle throb.
Nick and Bobby stood near the far end of the bookstore, just beyond a table stacked with A Bad Education.
"So," Bobby said. "Final year's going by fast. I finished my short last month, got decent feedback, actually. Some of the guys in the editing suite think I should send it to festivals." He smiled a little. "I might. If I ever stop tweaking the damn thing."
Nick's eyes flickered with warmth. "I'm not surprised."
Bobby chuckled, brushing hair out of his eyes. "I was a mess back then."
Nick raised a brow. "And I wasn't?"
There was a ripple of laughter between them. Soft. Familiar.
"I mean…" Bobby's voice quieted, "You always seemed like you had it together. Even when things were falling apart. Like it didn't weigh anything."
Nick looked down, a small smile ghosting his lips. "It weighed."
Bobby nodded, letting the silence return for a beat before filling it again. "You said you might travel?"
Nick shrugged, the motion slow, a little practiced. "Maybe. I've thought about it. Maybe Lisbon. Or Florence. I don't know. The book's done better than I expected. And I guess I'm just...tired of being in one place."
Bobby studied him carefully, as if searching for signs beneath the words. "I've thought about reaching out," Bobby said quietly. "Plenty of times."
"I know."
They were quiet again.
Nick's fingers absently traced the edges of his hair, pushing it back. Bobby watched the motion, his chest tightening. The ache was still there. It seemed dull but deep-rooted.
"You look good," Nick said after a while. "Happy. Steady."
Bobby smiled. "I am. Mostly. Still figuring it out."
Nick nodded. "Good."
The pause came again, longer this time. Thick. Unavoidable.
And then Bobby leaned back, crossing his arms lightly over his chest. His voice dropped, uncertain but steady. "Can I ask you something?"
Nick looked up, met his gaze, and nodded once.
Bobby's throat moved as he swallowed. "Why did you leave?" he asked.
Nick looked at Bobby for a long time.
There was no bitterness in his expression. No anger. Just a quiet ache, softened by time. A weariness that had settled into the corners of his eyes like fine dust. Then, he looked away, not to avoid Bobby's gaze, but to find the words somewhere in the room's corners, the places no one had touched in years.
"I left," he began slowly, "because I had to."
His voice wasn't dramatic. It was plain, stripped of adornment. But it trembled slightly, as though the truth had gathered weight over the years and only now found room to surface.
"I left because if I didn't…I would've ruined you."
Bobby closed his lips, watching him.
"You were just a kid. Everything in you was raw and unfinished, like the last page of a book someone left blank on purpose. And me…" Nick smiled faintly, "I'd been written. Dog-eared. Annotated. Exhausted from trying to keep my story neat. From trying to keep my own lie...true."
He leaned against the table.
"When it all started, when I first noticed...a part of me needed to protect you. From him, from the darkness that festered around us. But somewhere along the line, it turned into needing you. For comfort. For solace. For meaning. I convinced myself that our hurt was the same, that maybe if we wrapped it around each other tightly enough, we could keep it out. But pain doesn't knit people together. It burns," Nick stammered, his gaze trembling. "That's when I realized I was just as cruel as he was. Maybe worse, because...my cruelty was born from my silence. I was just...too tired to admit it."
He looked up at Bobby now, his voice quieter. "That day, on that gas station...I watched you walk out of that table, and I thought...he still has a chance," Nick's eyes narrowed. "You still had a path untouched by me, by what I might've done to you had I held on. I couldn't live with the thought of becoming what he was to you. Of loving you into pieces. After all... I'd failed you just as much as he had."
Nick's hands gripped each other lightly. He exhaled.
"But I want you to know...our time together, whatever it was, was real. Trauma. Dysfunction. Misplaced longing. What we felt?... What we had? It was real. Messy. Fervent. Beautiful. And I'll carry that with me...for the rest of my life. Always. Because even if I had to let it go, even if it wasn't right to keep it…it meant something."
Bobby's eyes shimmered, his throat moving as he swallowed.
Nick smiled gently. "Brief. Brilliant. And gone before the world could smother it. And I think…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I think part of love, the real kind, is knowing when to leave before you destroy the things you treasure most."
He leaned back slightly, his voice even softer now. "I didn't leave you, Bobby. I left us."
The silence that followed felt sacred. Not heavy, not sharp. Just still.
And then Nick said, "I'm proud of you. You turned out better than I would have ever hoped. And more."
Bobby parted his lips, just about to speak, when the door to the small library creaked open and ushered in a draft of chilled air. Nick turned his head instinctively.
A young man had entered, a vision of careless grace. He was tall, with smooth olive skin. His hair, dark and curling at the ends, fell into his eyes in a way that looked unintentional, though surely wasn't. He wore a navy wool coat, open, a turtleneck beneath that hugged his lean frame, and slacks that ended just above polished boots.
He spotted Bobby and made his way over.
Without hesitation, he leaned down and kissed Bobby on the lips, nothing showy, nothing theatrical. Rather affectionate. Familiar.
Bobby smiled, but there was a flicker of something caught between discomfort and guilt, as if remembering the world that had once existed between himself and Nick. He cleared his throat, his hand brushing quickly across his mouth.
"Nick," Bobby said, pulling his shoulders back, "this is Eli. My boyfriend."
Nick offered his hand with a soft smile. "Nick Morrisey."
Eli shook it firmly. "I know," he said with a charming grin. "I read A Bad Education more times than I care to admit. Broke me every single time."
Nick gave a small laugh. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be. It was beautiful," Eli said. "Sharp. Honest. And just the right kind of cruel."
There was silence for a moment, not awkward, but poignant. Bobby shifted slightly, looking between the two men.
"We actually met at a panel on Queer cinema," Bobby said. "I hated the movie, and he defended it like it was a religion."
"Still do," Eli replied, nudging Bobby's knee under the table.
Nick smiled, warm and distant. "I'm glad," he said. "You look…happy."
Bobby nodded, his eyes softening. "I am."
A beat. Then Eli glanced at his watch and gently placed a hand on Bobby's shoulder. "We should go. I still need to stop by the printers before we head home."
"Yeah," Bobby whispered. "It was, hum...good to see you," he said, slowly stepping away.
"Yeah," Nick replied. "You, too."
He watched them go, Eli's hand falling easily at the small of Bobby's back as they walked toward the door. Nick remained at the table, unmoving, eyes on the glass door long after it closed behind them.
He had seen love walk away before. But for some reason, this time, it didn't sting.
Nick turned slowly, fingers grazing the worn cover of his novel on the display table. He paused there, his thumb brushing the edge like one might trace the spine of a lover long gone. His chest lifted with a quiet breath.
But then, just as he was about to grab his bag, the doorbell above the entrance jingled, sharp and sudden.
Nick turned.
Bobby was already moving, fast, wild, almost reckless with feeling. His coat flared behind him, cheeks flushed. And in the next heartbeat, he was in Nick's arms, crashing into him like a wave returning to shore. Their bodies met in a quiet force, the kind of embrace that rewrote time. That stitched the years back together in a single exhale.
Nick's hands found Bobby's back instinctively, his arms wrapping around. The bookstore dimmed around them. For a moment, neither of them moved. They just held. A long, unspoken remembering.
Then Bobby pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Nick's. "Thank you...for letting me go. For saving me," he finally whispered.
Nick's eyes closed. A shiver passed through him. Not from cold, but from the truth of it. From how much it had cost. From how worth it it suddenly felt.
Bobby leaned in, soft, sure, and kissed him. A kiss like spring returning after a brutal winter.
Not a promise.
Not a request.
A parting gift.
And as he pulled back, eyes glimmering with something halfway between tears and peace, he whispered one last thing.
"I love you."
Before Nick could reply, Bobby stepped away, the distance between them unfolding. He turned and walked out, the bell above the door echoing as it closed.
Nick stood in the quiet.
He looked through the glass, watching Bobby disappear into the crowd, his figure swallowed by the life he'd built, by the healing he had earned.
A long silence passed.
Then, Nick blinked, and a smile curled gently across his face. Not the sad kind. Not the bitter kind. The real kind. He closed his eyes, head tilted toward the door Bobby had vanished through, and in a voice only he could hear, he whispered.
"I love you, too."
*
(Lisbon - Six Months Later)
Outside, the Tagus shimmered like a silver ribbon winding its way toward the sea. Inside, the lecture hall buzzed softly with expectation.
Then the door opened.
Nick walked in.
His dark jeans hung loose at the waist, paired with a simple white shirt rolled to the elbows. One arm, bare and inked from wrist to bicep with fine-lined tattoos. There was something unkempt about him still. Worn elegance that made students lean forward and wonder what it was that made this man at once so magnetic and so remote. His hair, longer now, curled slightly at the ends, and a few strands fell over his brow in a way that didn't seem planned, yet suited him.
He dropped his satchel on the wooden desk at the front and glanced up at the crowd.
"Today," he said, "we're talking about characters who don't break. Who bend, sometimes violently, but remain standing. Not because they're heroic. But because they have no other choice."
A quiet ripple moved through the room.
He stepped in front of the desk, pacing slowly, his left hand trailing along the edge of the worn table. "We love to romanticize suffering," he continued, "but literature has always known better. It knows that pain leaves residue. That healing is rarely neat. And that the people who survive often do so at a cost."
He stopped near the window, the sunlight catching the shadow of his lashes.
“Think of Jean Valjean. Of Sethe in Beloved. Of Baldwin's David. These aren't saints. They're fractured people. But literature doesn't offer salvation. It offers clarity. It shows us how someone can come undone…and still move forward. Still choose love. Or solitude. Or silence."
A student raised her hand. "Mr. Morissey, do you think all great characters need to suffer in order to become complete?"
Nick smiled faintly. "I don't know if anyone becomes complete," he said. "But I do believe suffering reveals the architecture beneath the façade. And sometimes, what we find underneath…is more beautiful than what we had before."
He walked back toward the desk, leaning on it with both hands. "A well-written character doesn't need to be likable. Or honest," he added.
Another student spoke up, this one older, perhaps a visiting scholar. "And what about authors? Do they write themselves into those characters?"
Nick's gaze didn't falter. "Sometimes," he said. "Not always consciously. But every author, at some point, writes a version of themselves. Or someone they couldn't save. Or someone who saved them."
The room fell into a hush. Students scribbled, a few simply stared. And for a brief moment, the sun flared fully into the room, flooding it in gold. Nick's phone buzzed once in his pocket.
He ignored it.
"Let's shift gears," Nick said, his voice a low current of calm. "We've talked about survival in fiction. Let's talk now about projection. About confession. About how much of ourselves we bury in the characters we write. And by extent, the characters we read."
A student sitting by the window, a woman with dark curls and a pink pencil tucked behind her ear, raised her hand. "Isn't that inevitable? Don't we always write what we know?"
Nick gave her a wry smile. "Some would say that. But I'd argue we write not just what we know. Sometimes, we write what we fear. Or what we've lost. Or worse, what we wanted and couldn't have."
Another student leaned forward. "But in your book…" He paused, careful. "There's this tension between memory and fiction. The narrator says, 'Truth is the most dangerous lie I've ever told.' Is that your voice? Or the character's?"
Nick's smile faded slightly. "Both," he said, after a breath. "That line came from somewhere very real. Fiction lets you be honest in a way reality never permits. But it disguises the source. It's a shield. And sometimes a mirror."
Silence for a moment. Only the scratching of pens on paper.
Then another voice, quieter, came from the back. "So, when you wrote about loving someone who hurt you…you were writing about yourself?"
Nick turned his head slowly.
The student was a young man with a pair of cracked glasses held together by tape. His expression wasn't accusatory.
Nick took a beat. "I was writing about the version of myself that stayed," he said. "The version that didn't know how to leave. Who made pain into a home because it was familiar."
The room didn't move.
"And did writing it help you leave?" the girl with the pink pencil asked gently.
Nick smiled, tired but genuine. "It helped me understand why I stayed."
One of the visiting scholars, an older man with thinning hair and the kind of rigid posture that comes with decades of academia, cleared his throat. "There's a longstanding argument, of course," he said, "that authors should never insert themselves into their work. That fiction should be autonomous."
Nick's reply was smooth. "I respect that position. But I don't believe in godless stories. Every novel is haunted. By its creator. By who they were, who they pretended to be, and who they were trying to forget."
A ripple of interest passed through the room.
The young man with the glasses spoke again. "But how do you write about someone who broke you? And not…break all over again?"
Nick nodded, the edges of his jaw tightening. He leaned back against the desk.
"You don't write about them," he said quietly. "You write around them. You build characters like scaffolding around the wound. You rename the street. You give them different eyes. But the ache stays the same."
They were quiet again.
It wasn't reverence.
It was recognition.
Nick's fingers trailed along the desk's surface, stopping at a black-and-white notebook. He opened it, revealing an annotated copy of his own novel.
"And sometimes," he added, eyes downcast, "you write them in the most flattering light possible. Because it's the only way you know how to forgive them."
He closed the notebook gently, the sound a soft echo in the room.
A girl in the front row murmured, "But they don't always deserve forgiveness."
"No," Nick said. "They don't. But writing isn't about justice. It's about transformation." He looked up then, eyes grazing the class. "Fiction is where we grieve the things we cannot mourn publicly."
The final bell rang faintly outside the corridor, but no one moved. They were too still. Too aware that something sacred had just unfolded. Nick stepped away from the desk, collected his satchel, and gave them a brief nod.
"Thank you," he said. "You've all been...generous listeners."
*
The tram bell rang with that unmistakable lilt as the eléctrico 28 jolted to life beneath Nick's feet. He stood inside the narrow, wood-paneled carriage, one hand gripping the brass pole, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. Outside, Lisbon spilled past the window like a reel of old film, wrought-iron balconies draped with drying laundry, azulejo-tiled façades glowing gold in the late afternoon sun, and the dizzying geometry of stairs, alleys, and vines.
The tram trundled up a steep incline, screeching as it wound its way past crumbling chapels and sleepy pastel houses. Nick leaned slightly into the sway, the hills of Lisbon teasing memories loose from his chest. He'd never been here. Lisbon was untouched by ghosts. And that, perhaps, was why he'd come.
When he stepped off the tram near Alfama, the sun was turning the city into copper. He wandered downhill, meandering through stone-paved alleyways where bougainvillea burst through cracks in the walls. The city smelled like roasted chestnuts and sea wind. His boots clicked on the mosaic sidewalks, and as he moved past storefronts, Fado spilled from an open window like a broken heart softly singing.
Near Rua da Misericórdia, a makeshift stand of old books caught his eye. Faded covers, broken spines, the scent of yellowed paper, it was a graveyard and a sanctuary of old writers and poets. He thumbed through Pessoa, Saramago, and a tattered Camus, remembering passages once read and re-read in another life. A volume of Fernando Pessoa's Book of Disquiet sat there, its title barely legible. He picked it up and bought it without a word.
Further down, he ducked into a small secondhand bookstore nestled between two cafés. The ceilings were low, and the air damp. Books were piled high in unruly towers, like thoughts trying to escape their bindings. The shopkeeper gave him a nod. Nick gave one in return. He ran his fingers over the spine of a collection of Lorca's poems, then Neruda's, and left the store without taking anything more.
The slope led him down toward Baixa Chiado, and at last, he saw it: Fernando Pessoa, seated eternally at the café that bore his name. Bronze, thoughtful, untouched by time. A waiter moved about, lighting candles at every table.
Nick chose one facing the statue and sat down, placing Pessoa's book beside him on the small iron table. He ordered an espresso, no sugar, and leaned back in the chair, gazing into the dusk.
He didn't think of the past anymore in jagged cuts but in soft murmurs. He didn't miss Bobby in the way he once had. It wasn't a longing that burned anymore, but a pulse. A quiet thing inside him. Still alive.
He brought the small porcelain cup to his lips just as the bells from a tram echoed through the streets again. The wind picked up.
He glanced at Pessoa again.
And then, Nick felt it.
That flicker. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He turned his head slightly, not rushed. Let the gaze settle. Across the café, a few tables away, sat a man, his elbow propped, chin resting casually on his knuckles, wine glass between his fingers. He was striking. Tall, with unruly black curls and a shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose a gleam of collarbone and thick chest hair. His eyes, warm, amused, curious, were fixed on Nick.
There was no embarrassment when their eyes met.
No turning away.
Only a long moment.
Nick held the gaze. His fingers grazed the edge of his espresso cup.
Without missing a beat, the man rose slowly, no ceremony or hesitation, carrying his glass of wine as though it were an extension of himself, confident, composed, and unafraid. He stepped across the cobblestones and approached Nick's table.
"Do you mind?" he asked in a voice touched by an Iberian lilt, gesturing to the empty chair opposite Nick. "I promise I'm not a tourist. I'm just terribly curious."
Nick smiled faintly, gesturing with an open palm. "By all means. Though curiosity can be dangerous, or so I've been told."
The man sat, his smile slanting with interest. "Only if what you find terrifies you. In my experience, it's usually worth it."
There was a beat of silence.
"I know who you are," the man said at last, setting down his glass gently. "Nick Morrisey. You wrote A Bad Education."
Nick gave a small, almost sheepish nod, lowering his gaze momentarily. "I did."
"I read it last year." He swirled his wine. "It helped me walk away from someone I thought I couldn't live without."
Nick glanced up, a quiet recognition in his eyes. "That's either a compliment or an accusation."
The man laughed. "A bit of both, probably. Good art always ruins something. Or saves it."
Nick tilted his head. "And which was it for you?"
"I suppose it saved me," the man said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Though it made me grieve harder first. You wrote about loss as if it were holy."
There was silence again. Not awkward but reflective.
Nick's voice was lower now. "Loss is holy. Or it becomes holy when you survive it."
"I like that." The man nodded. "It's what I told myself when I left Lisbon for a year and came back with shorter hair, better shoes, and no desire to check his Instagram again." Nick smiled, genuinely this time. "I'm Rafael, by the way," the man said, extending his hand across the table.
Nick shook it. "Nick."
"I know," Rafael said with a wink. They both chuckled, and the laughter curled into something quieter. "So," Rafael said, settling back into his chair, "do you always haunt Pessoa's shadow, or is this your way of meeting melancholic strangers who talk too much?"
Nick's smirk sharpened. "That depends. Are you always this forward with authors whose books you claim to admire?"
"Only the ones I'd like to kiss by midnight."
Nick blinked, caught off guard, and amused. He set his cup down slowly. "Well, I've got a manuscript to finish before then. But I could make an exception."
Rafael tilted his head, intrigued. "You write at night?"
"I live at night."
"Sounds lonely."
Nick shrugged. "I find it to be...quieter."
Rafael studied him with the kind of attentiveness that didn't feel invasive, just sincere. "You know, I think that's what drew me to your book. You made loneliness feel like a language. Like something you could speak and someone might understand."
Nick's gaze lingered. That strange pull inside him, not desire, not yet, but an openness he hadn't felt in years. Like a door creaking on its hinge, hesitant.
He glanced at the empty wine glass in Rafael's hand. "Can I offer you another drink?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
Nick waved over to the waiter. After a while, he returned with a glass for Nick and a brand new bottle of the most exquisite red, setting it on the table. They talked for hours about everything and nothing: the films they loved, the foods they hated, the places they'd left behind. And somewhere between Pessoa's bronze gaze, something unexpected began to stir.
"Well," he said, tapping the corner of his wine glass with a long, elegant finger, "since we're sitting next to him," Rafael started, tilting his head toward the bronze statue. "shall we pretend to be literary men?"
Nick arched an eyebrow, hiding a grin behind his espresso. "You mean we aren't already?"
Rafael chuckled. "You are. I'm just someone who reads to feel less alone."
Nick stirred his wine glass. "That's the whole point, isn't it? Literature as company."
Rafael's eyes sparkled. "So what's your take on Pessoa, then? A genius or a man too fragmented to be one?"
Nick took his time before answering, then set the glass down.
"I think Pessoa was a ghost who couldn't choose which body to haunt. Álvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis, Alberto Caeiro. Each one braver than he ever allowed himself to be." Rafael leaned forward, fascinated. Nick looked at him closely. "Pessoa once wrote, 'To pretend is to know oneself.'"
Rafael nodded. "Yes. But sometimes you pretend so well, you forget what you were faking in the first place."
Nick's smile faded, not from disapproval but from understanding. "I always liked Álvaro the best," Nick said after a moment. "The self-destructive one. The one who screamed into poems like he was choking on himself."
"Of course you would," Rafael teased. "He's the one who said, 'I've always been someone else.'"
"Exactly," Nick murmured.
There was silence again. Rafael stared down at his glass, and Nick watched him, as if in that quiet he could read all the pasts Rafael hadn't yet shared.
"Who were you," Rafael asked softly, "when you were writing your book?"
Nick's gaze drifted across the square. "A man trying to lose himself before grief could finish the job."
Rafael reached out, this time with less flirtation and more reverence, his fingers grazing Nick's hand briefly on the table.
"And did you succeed?"
Nick looked down at the touch. "I survived."
"Pessoa would say surviving is the loneliest kind of living."
Nick let out a breath. "And yet, here we are."
Rafael leaned back again. "Here we are," he echoed.
Nick laughed softly, shaking his head. "You're...intriguing."
"I'm Portuguese," Rafael said with a wink. "It's in the blood. Saudade and seduction."
Nick's eyes narrowed with curiosity. "I've heard that word quite a lot since I arrived. Tell me…what does saudade mean?"
Rafael tilted his head, the edges of his mouth curled. "Saudade," he echoed, rolling the syllables like a prayer. "It's one of the few words in the world that can't be translated."
Nick leaned back with quiet interest.
Rafael continued, voice softer now. "It's...a longing. But not just for someone you miss. It's the ache of remembering something that once brought joy and now only stirs absence. It's missing what never fully belonged to you. Or what you lost before you could even name it."
Nick swallowed. Slowly. He didn't say anything at first.
"And sometimes," Rafael added, watching him carefully, "it's loving something you know you'll never get back. And still loving it anyway."
The air between them stretched like a held breath. Nick looked away, past Rafael, to the square that had darkened with night, the statue of Pessoa still unmoving, forever watching, forever waiting.
"Sounds...familiar," Nick said finally, more to himself than anyone else.
Rafael sat back, fingers curled around his wine glass. "Pessoa had dozens of heterónimos. Entire lives, really. Each with its own philosophy, style, fears, tastes. Sometimes I wonder..." His voice drifted for a moment before he leaned in slightly. "Do you think we can be more than one person? At once, I mean. Not just masks we wear, but actual selves. Fragmented and authentic all at once."
Nick's fingers tapped idly against his copy of Book Of Disquiet resting on the table between them. His eyes were half-lidded, not from fatigue but from thought.
"I think... we're always more than one person," he said at last, his voice low and measured. "We're who we were in moments of silence. We're who we are when someone loves us. Who we become when someone hurts us. And then...there are the selves we invent to survive."
Rafael didn't speak, just watched him, eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to read more than what was being said.
Nick continued, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the square. "There was a time when I thought I had to be one thing. One fixed identity, or I'd fracture. But I've lived too many lives now. Been too many things. A teacher. A writer. A lover. A fool. A coward. A liar. A protector. A man who walked away. And one who stayed when he shouldn't have."
His fingers grazed the edge of his glass.
"I think Pessoa understood something the rest of us are afraid to admit. That fragmentation isn't a flaw. It's the most pure form of honesty."
Rafael's smile was slow to form, but it came like something warming from the inside out. "That's the most beautiful answer I've ever heard," he said quietly. "And the most terrifying."
Nick looked at him then. Really looked. And the faintest smile played at the corner of his mouth.
"Only if you're still pretending to be one person."
Their eyes held each other's in the candlelight. There was something charged in the quiet, curious, as though Pessoa himself had turned to listen.
Nick finished the last sip of his wine. Across from him, Rafael leaned back in his chair, arms casually folded, a crooked smile dancing on his lips.
"Are you...staying nearby?" Rafael asked, eyes narrowing in a teasing manner.
Nick looked at him, gaze steady and unreadable for a moment. He tilted his head slightly and said nothing.
Rafael leaned forward. "Are you going to make me guess?"
Nick finally smirked, sliding his chair back with quiet purpose. "Actually...I was thinking," he said, "I might show you."
Rafael's eyebrows rose, delighted. He stood without a word, discretely adjusting his bulge.
They began walking, side by side, through the heart of the old city.
They weren't rushing.
They were taking their time.
And it wasn't long before their bodies merged into a single mass, fading into the crowd.
Finally disappearing into the distance.
*
(One Year Later)
Dr. Rainer's office was still the same.
Muted earth tones, framed black-and-white photographs, the faint, steady ticking of a wall clock that Adrian pretended not to hear.
He sat across from her, cane leaning against the arm of the leather chair, a folded linen jacket draped over one knee. His posture was better now, more present. There was still tension in the jaw, an occasional tremble in his left hand, but he looked healthier. And older.
"You seem more grounded today," Dr. Rainer said, smiling gently as she scribbled a note.
Adrian raised a brow. "Careful, Elizabeth. Compliments lead to inflated egos, remember?"
She chuckled, tapping her pen against her clipboard. "I think we're safely past that stage. I'd like to suggest something."
He tilted his head, mock suspicious. "Another breathing exercise? Or, God forbid, group therapy?"
"No," she said, leaning forward, her tone lighter. "I think we can scale back. One session a week. Unless anything changes."
Adrian blinked.
There was a pause.
The air shifted.
"One session," he repeated softly. "That's like...taking the training wheels off."
"You've done a lot of work. More than most would."
Adrian gave a short laugh. "That's because most don't have to wake up with themselves every day. Or live with the damage they caused."
There was silence. Not uncomfortable, just meaningful.
He stared down at his hands for a long moment before speaking again. "Can I tell you something strange?" he asked, his voice lower. "I'm actually scared. Not of dying or the pain or any of that melodramatic bullshit. I'm scared of...being alone."
Dr. Rainer nodded calmly, knowingly. "That's not strange, Adrian. It's human."
He met her eyes. Vulnerability flickered there, an old flame trying to catch in the wind.
"I don't know who I am when I'm not performing," he admitted. "When I'm not chasing someone. Or proving something. Or trying to keep the world orbiting around me. Without all that, it's...quiet. Too quiet."
"You're learning to live without the mask," she said. "And yes, it's quiet. But it's also honest. Narcissistic Personality Disorder doesn't have a cure, Adrian. But it does have a path. One where you stop needing everyone to look at you, and learn to look inward."
Adrian exhaled slowly. Then smiled faintly. "You always know how to end on a hopeful note."
"That's my job," she said.
He stood up slowly, taking the cane with him. The limp was still there, but it no longer defined him. He shook her hand, firm but careful.
Outside, as soon as his shoes hit the edge of the sidewalk, a sleek black car idled at the curb. Adrian approached it, and the driver quickly got out to open the door.
"Where to, sir?" the man asked, polite, practiced.
Adrian looked out toward the end of the street, beyond it, a breeze tugging gently at his jacket.
"The beach house," he said.
*
The car came to a gentle stop in the driveway.
The beach house stood as it always had: pale and angular, washed in the late light of early evening, its windows gold-rimmed with the reflection of a sinking sun. Adrian exhaled, his fingers drumming softly on the handle of the door.
The driver turned toward him. "Will you be long, sir?"
Adrian tilted his head. Something flickered across his face, detachment first, then consideration. "How long's it been since you saw your family?"
The driver blinked, caught off guard. "Three weeks, I think."
Adrian nodded slowly, then looked back at the house. "Go," he said. "Take the car. Be with them. I'll call in a couple of days when I'm ready to leave."
The driver hesitated. "Are you sure, sir?"
Adrian stepped out onto the gravel with a grunt, gripping his cane. "Yes. I won't be expecting anyone." his lips twisted in a wry smile.
The driver offered a brief, grateful nod and returned to the car. A minute later, the engine faded into the distance, swallowed by the silence of the coast.
Alone now, Adrian faced the house. The cane clicked lightly against the stones as he walked up to the door and pushed it open.
Inside, the light was golden and still. The furniture remained untouched, sofas plump and undisturbed, a pale blue throw folded over the edge of the couch. The silence was the loudest thing of all. It wasn't hostile, but it wasn't friendly either. It had settled into the bones of the place like fog.
Adrian moved slowly.
He touched the dining table with his fingertips, dragging them over the smooth wood. A flash: Nick, shirtless, setting down a dish. Bobby making a snarky remark in the background.
He stepped into the kitchen. He could almost smell Nick's coffee, the scratch of the knife on the cutting board, Bobby seated at the counter in one of those effortless tank tops, hair wet from the sea, sand still between his toes.
Adrian closed his eyes.
But the memory soured.
The plate crashing on the tile. The raised voices. His voice. Accusing. Cold. Bobby's shoulders tensing. Nick's eyes narrowing. That sickening, creeping quiet that always followed his worst moods.
He turned away.
The cane thudded against the base of the staircase. He looked up toward the landing where he had once screamed after Nick. Where he had cursed him, threatened him, pleaded with him. Now, it just looked like a hallway.
He didn't climb the stairs.
Instead, he stepped toward the deck, pushing open the sliding door. The ocean air rushed at him, cold, clean, sharp with salt. The horizon was lavender and soft, the sea calm and darkening.
The light was fading, burnished gold slipping into dusky violet.
Without a word, he set the cane down on the edge of the deck. The first few steps were clumsy, an awkward choreography of half-healed limbs and stubborn will. But he moved forward, one foot after the other, his shoes leaving imprints in the cooling sand.
When he reached the shoreline, he stopped. The water lapped at his toes, then his ankles, cool and ancient. He stood there. He felt the tide pulling gently at his balance. Not enough to knock him over. Just enough to remind him that the world moved whether he moved with it or not.
His eyes slipped closed.
There was no sermon.
No divine voice splitting the clouds.
No sudden peace.
But there was something else.
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that lived under everything, the pain, the noise, the defenses. The silence that had waited for him, patient and infinite, beneath all the damage he'd done. Not to judge. Not to absolve. Just to be there.
His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching as though remembering the reach of them, how they once clung, how they once pushed away. He remembered the look in Bobby's eyes. The quiet weight of Nick's goodbye. He remembered his mother's absence, his father's cruelty, the mask he'd stitched from arrogance and charm to hide the wounded thing underneath.
And at that moment, standing barefoot in the water, the tide soaking the cuffs of his pants, Adrian felt it.
Not guilt.
Not self-loathing.
Grief.
The grief of having missed something precious. The grief of being alive after destroying the only things that ever tethered him to the earth. The grief of realizing that second chances are not infinite.
Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, the hush of the waves was broken by a sharp bark.
Adrian flinched.
He turned, startled.
From the dunes, bounding clumsily across the sand, came a familiar figure. Four-legged, golden-coated, eyes bright as the horizon. The dog trotted toward him with casual entitlement, tail high and wagging, as if Adrian had always been part of its pack.
Adrian blinked. "I've seen you around," he murmured.
August sat on the wet sand beside him and tilted his head, tongue lolling as if amused by the notion. He panted softly, ears twitching. There was something about his gaze, steady, warm, insistent. Not unlike Nick's, once.
Adrian watched him, wary but curious. The dog inched closer, then closer still, until his body pressed lightly against Adrian's side. The contact was startling. Not just physical, but grounding. Real.
"You're not subtle, are you?" Adrian muttered. "Just barge right in, why don't you."
August leaned his head against Adrian's shoulder, eyes half-closed in something close to contentment. Adrian sat frozen in place. He wasn't used to being leaned on without agenda. Not anymore.
A woman's voice called out from behind the dunes, panting and breathless. "August! August, damn it."
Adrian turned just in time to see her jog into view. She was in her mid-thirties, hair tied into a haphazard ponytail, dressed in loose jeans and an oversized cardigan. She stopped short at the sight of them.
"Oh, thank God," she sighed, hands on her hips. "He's impossible. I'm sorry. He doesn't listen to me. Never has, really. He's been like this since my father died."
Adrian stood slowly, brushing sand from his hands. "Your father?"
She nodded, still catching her breath. "He lived next door. He died a few months ago. Since then, August just…wanders. Won't stay put. I've been trying to find him a new home, but..." She sighed again. "It's hard. He doesn't seem to want to leave. It's like he's waiting for someone."
Adrian looked down at August, who was now sitting between them like a quiet observer, head tipped back toward the sky.
"I see," Adrian said, his voice distant.
A second voice called out her name, indistinct, but enough to make her turn. "That's my husband. I've gotta go help him. Could you...?" She gestured helplessly at August.
Adrian's instinct was to refuse. To raise the walls. But he found himself hesitating. The dog's eyes locked on his again, expectant, gentle.
After a pause, he exhaled. "Fine."
She offered a grateful smile. "Thank you. He seems to like you."
Then she was gone, jogging back toward the house, her voice already fading.
Adrian sat back down on the sand, his legs stretched toward the tide, his hands planted behind him for balance. August sniffed once, then circled twice before plopping down beside him with a satisfied grunt. The dog let out a long exhale, pressing his side against Adrian's thigh as though he'd known him forever.
Adrian blinked at him, lips twitching into something like amusement. August's ears flicked, but he didn't move. His eyes remained on the horizon, watchful and serene.
Adrian leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. The waves rolled and receded. "It's weird. I've owned this house for years, and I don't think I've ever walked this far down the beach." He glanced at the dog.
August yawned, his tongue flopping sideways before gently resting his chin on Adrian's shin.
Something softened in Adrian's face. His hand found its way to the dog's head, stroking the space behind his ear with surprising gentleness. "I screwed everything up," he said, his voice quieter now.
August blinked slowly, like a priest listening without judgment.
"I used to think being loved meant being needed. That if someone needed you, they'd never leave. I was wrong." Adrian scratched at the dog's neck absently. "Turns out I'm not the sun. I'm just...a dark cloud."
The breeze lifted the edges of his shirt. The light was fading fast, and a hush fell between them.
After a moment, Adrian drew in a long breath, pushed himself up onto unsteady legs, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He dropped it in the sand without ceremony. Then his undershirt. Then his pants. His underwear. Everything.
The scars on his body, surgical, faded, invisible, were all visible now. The parts of him that had survived the stroke, the therapy, the years of unkindness. He stood there, naked beneath the first touch of starlight, thin and pale and aging but upright. Breathing.
He took a step toward the water, then another.
Behind him, August barked.
Adrian turned his head. "Relax," he said with a smirk. "I'm not going to kill myself."
August grunted, unimpressed, and laid his head back down on the sand with a heavy sigh as if to say, 'Well, hurry up then.'
Adrian gave him one last glance, a softening in his eyes, and turned toward the sea again. His feet met the waves, and he walked forward, water curling around his calves, his knees, his thighs, until the ocean held him.
He tilted his head back and let the ocean embrace him, cradling his broken body in a balm. He floated, weightless, arms out like wings, legs suspended, the sky opening above him in a vaulted hush of twilight.
For a moment, everything was still.
No thoughts.
No names.
No past.
And then, they came. Adrian's tears.
Without resistance. Merging with the salt and the sea, indistinguishable. He cried for all of it. For the boy who was never seen, the man who became a mirror of his father's cruelty, for Nick's silences, for Bobby's distance, for the monstrous shadow of love twisted into control. He cried for the shame, and the want, and the years wasted chasing a version of himself that had never truly existed.
And then, amidst the ache, a smile, faint, trembling, but real. It curved his lips with a kind of fragile joy. Not redemption. Not absolution.
But peace.
He closed his eyes, letting the sea hold him.
The tide rocked him like a lullaby, and for the first time in his life, Adrian finally let go.
THE END
Casual Wanderer © 2025
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