Locked Away From the World Outside

Love and loss are never far apart. This biscuit takes us back in time when Ari's lost everything—then said goodbye to the one person who helped her survive it.  If you haven't yet, make sure to read chapter 14 before diving in.

"In my dreams, I’ll always see you soar about the sky"

October 1996

Adjusting to life after a world tour always took time. The relentless motion of the road—the bus, the venues, the adrenaline-fueled pace—didn’t just fade overnight. That’s why Ariana Moretti always made a beeline for Petit Soho. It was her ritual, her reset. Nestled in the quiet edges of Montreal, it offered more than just a familiar kitchen and her grandmother’s warm hugs. It gave Max, her longtime friend and bar manager, time off to be with his growing family. And it gave her space—mentally, emotionally, even physically—to land again.

 

Canada was her second home. A place where the noise softened and her thoughts slowed enough for her to actually hear them. It was here she found clarity, processed the complicated layers of her relationship with Jon, and most importantly, gave herself and Sal the room to shift gears. Working side by side on the road was second nature by now—they operated like clockwork. But at home, they became father and daughter again, not boss and crew. That transition, like everything in her life, came with a rhythm of its own.

 

Usually, after a break, she’d line up the next gig—festival prep, another tour, something to keep her moving. But not this time. When she signed the These Days tour contract, she made herself a promise: no more shows for the rest of the year. No last-minute phone calls, no jetting off to another country. Just time to breathe.

 

And for five and a half months, she had done exactly that. She savored the silence of staying in one place. She found pleasure in small rituals—mornings that didn’t require alarms, dinners that didn’t come in backstage containers, walks through the city that weren’t timed between load-ins and soundchecks. For once, her calendar was hers.

 

This trip north wasn’t just for rest, though. The bar needed attention. She tackled the repairs with her usual efficiency—fresh paint on the walls, fall menu items tested and signed off by Gabriel, the kitchen manager, and the open house Thanksgiving dinner mapped out to the last side dish. When every box was checked, she knew she was ready to return to the coast.

 

Labor Day had come and gone, and with it the last wave of tourists. Her little beach town in Half Moon Bay would be settling into the off-season hush she loved most. The days ahead promised peace: slow coffee on the deck at sunrise, long five-mile runs along the quiet shoreline, and evenings curled under a blanket with her favorite whiskey as the sky blushed into twilight.

 

For the last six weeks, she and Sal had fallen into a new rhythm. Mornings began with the scent of his signature omelet drifting through the air while she sipped her coffee and flipped through the newspaper on the deck. It was ordinary. And it was perfect.

 

“Hey,” Sal called from the kitchen, the sound of a spatula clinking against a skillet. “Smoke rang earlier. He’s got a gig coming up—needs extra hands. You interested?”

 

“Uh... hell NO!” she shouted back without hesitation.

 

“It doesn’t start for another six weeks.”

 

“Still a no,” she said, grinning into her coffee.

 

“You’re really not gonna work the rest of the year?”

 

“That’s right. The only thing on my calendar is helping Lili with the neighborhood feast. After that, it’s me, this deck, and that glorious oversized couch. What about you? You thinking about it?”

 

“Haven’t decided. Smoke’s still figuring out logistics. Told him I’d think it over once he gets them sorted.”

 

“You should go. That way, I’ll have the house to myself.” She peeked over her shoulder with a sly smile as she stood and grabbed her plate.

 

“My daughter, the comedian,” he muttered, eyeing her mug. “Need a refill?”

 

“Please. And bring a napkin. I got jam all over my fingers.”

 

He returned a moment later with a fresh cup, a folded napkin, and two of her favorite doughnuts.

 

She blinked in surprise. “Where’d these come from?”

 

“Didn’t you hear the doorbell? Cassandra dropped them off.”

 

“Ohhh, she did now,” Ari teased, tearing off a corner. “Was that the only thing she wanted to drop off?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Sure, you don’t.”

 

“For the record, she left her keys.”

 

“So you can slip over while I’m out running.”

 

“You need more girlfriends. All these years on the road with the boys have warped your brain.”

 

“Years is right. And whose fault is that?”

 

“Don’t act like I dragged you into this life kicking and screaming. You love it.”

 

“Ain’t that the truth.” She stood and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair in ten. Then you can sneak off and get your freak on.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Ari. Knock it off. We’re just friends. She’s headed to some antique show and left the keys in case of emergency.”

 

“If you say so,” she said with a wink. “Gonna rinse these dishes and change. Don’t wanna waste these clouds.”

 

“Have a good run.”

 

“Join me,” she offered, patting his belly. “You brought home a little extra luggage this tour.”

 

He laughed and gave her a playful elbow. “Get outta here.”

 

She changed quickly and hit the beach trail, leaving him to the dishes. The morning was draped in a low, silvery haze—the kind of cloudy weather that made Half Moon Bay feel like the edge of the world. Fog clung to the waves as they rolled in rhythmic pulses, and the cool sea air prickled her skin in the best way.

 

Running had always been her therapy. With each footfall, she left behind the noise, the worry, the weight of the past year. The stretch of beach spanned four and a half miles, each grain of sand more familiar than the last. Some days she ran both ways. Others, like today, she ran one direction and walked the return, letting the sea keep her company. She passed a few surfers chasing the morning tide and exchanged small talk with a retired couple sipping coffee near the dunes.

 

When she finally made it back, sweat-kissed and wind-tangled, she jogged up the three steps to the deck.

 

“Everyone decent?” she called, pushing open the french door.

 

Silence.

 

“Dad?” she called again, her voice sharper now.

 

Scanning the living room, she didn’t see him. But then her eyes fell on the kitchen—and her breath caught. Her father was lying on the floor, one arm bent awkwardly, his phone still clutched in his hand.

 

“DAD!” she screamed, rushing to his side.

 

Dropping to her knees, she leaned over him, heart thundering in her ears. “Dad! Dad!” Her hand shook as she touched his shoulder—his skin was cold, damp, his face deathly pale.

 

Fumbling for her phone with trembling fingers, she managed to call 9-1-1.

 

“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”

 

“It’s my father,” she gasped. “I—I think he collapsed.”

 

“Is he breathing?”

 

“Barely! And I can’t find a pulse!”

 

“The address on file is 3274 Ocean Bay Boulevard. Is that correct?”

 

“Yes! Please, just hurry!”

 

“Help is on the way. They're eight minutes out. Do you know CPR?”

 

“A little!” she barked, desperate.

 

“Place the phone on speaker. I’ll guide you until they arrive.”

 

She obeyed, her body trembling as she followed the operator’s instructions, her hands moving on autopilot. The seconds stretched unbearably. She couldn’t think—only act.

 

By the time the paramedics arrived, she had done everything she could. They took over quickly—IV lines, portable monitors, swift commands exchanged between them. She wanted to ride in the ambulance, but they asked her to follow in her Jeep to give them space to work.

 

In a daze, she locked the patio doors, grabbed her keys and backpack, and ran to the car. The ambulance was already pulling away, lights flashing silently in the morning fog.

 

As she tore out of the driveway, the sky above seemed heavier than it had moments before. Tears blurred the road as she whispered over and over, “Please be okay. Please don’t leave me, not like this.”

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

  

Ariana paced the narrow trauma room, her heart thundering in her chest. Overhead fluorescents flickered too brightly, casting harsh light over the chaos unfolding in front of her. Her father lay motionless on the gurney, tubes and wires snaking from his body as a team of doctors and nurses moved with urgent, practiced coordination.

 

The shrill beeping of the monitors was relentless. Every sound was a reminder that life was hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

 

“Let’s go, people! I need 50 cc’s of epi, stat!” the lead doctor barked.

 

“On it!” a nurse called, already prepping the syringe with trembling precision.

 

Ariana’s vision blurred with tears. She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to hold herself together, trying to will this not to be real. She couldn’t look at him—not like this. Salvatore Moretti wasn’t meant to be hooked up to machines, pale and still. He was supposed to be cracking eggs for omelets, cussing at busted soundboards, dancing to Springsteen in the kitchen while making espresso.

 

He was her North Star. Her anchor. And now he looked like a ghost.

 

Daddy, please… Her whisper was drowned in the clatter of instruments. “You can’t leave me. Not now. Not like this.”

 

The doctor spared her a glance, his tone softening just enough to remind her that he saw her. “Ma’am, we’re doing everything we can. Just… hang in there.”

 

Hang in there? The words echoed uselessly. What did that even mean when the person you loved most was slipping away right in front of you? The paramedics had said he was stable—but he’d already flatlined twice. Two heart attacks in an hour. Each one like a steel-toed boot to her chest.

 

“Come on, Sal,” a nurse urged, voice tight. “You’ve got more fight in you than this.”

 

Ariana’s eyes flicked to the monitor. Numbers blinked in erratic patterns. She clenched her fists, her breath catching as wave after wave of memory crashed into her—her father’s booming laugh, his bear hugs that could fix anything, his voice telling her, “We don’t quit, Ari. Morettis fight.”

 

“Clear!” the doctor shouted.

 

She winced and covered her ears as the defibrillator paddles discharged. His body jolted. A twitch—was that real? Her breath caught in her throat.

 

“Again! Charging!”

 

“Stand clear!”

 

Fight, Daddy. Please fight! Her mind screamed, though her lips barely moved. The room pressed in on her. The smell of antiseptic. The heat of fear prickling at her neck. The coldness in her bones.

 

“Clear!”

 

His body jerked again. The flatline remained—but then, a flicker. A faint blip. So small she almost missed it.

 

“Talk to him,” the doctor said, glancing at her. There was something new in his voice—hope.

 

“I’m here, Dad,” she choked out. “I’m right here. You’re not done yet. Zio’s got a job for you, remember? And I’m coming too. But you have to come back to me.”

 

She took his hand, the warmth barely there—but still there. “Morettis fight. Always. You taught me that, remember?”

 

Outside the room, a group of nurses passed by laughing, their voices carefree and bright, a cruel counterpoint to the hell unfolding inside. Ariana snapped her head toward the door, fury rising in her chest. How dare the world keep spinning while hers was collapsing?

 

Then—another beep.

 

The doctor’s voice cut through it all. “He’s crashing again. Ms., I need you to step back.”

 

“No!” she cried, clinging to her father’s hand. “I can’t let go!”

 

“Please, honey,” a nurse said gently. “We need space to work.”

 

Ariana hesitated, her fingers tightening around his for just one more second. Then, trembling, she stepped back, her feet feeling miles away from the floor.

 

“DAD!” she cried out as the machines screamed their warning.

 

“Clear!” the doctor barked again.

 

Another jolt. Another twitch. This time stronger. The monitors flickered to life with a faint but steady rhythm.

 

The doctor turned toward her, eyes locking with hers. “We’re not giving up. We’ll fight every step of the way.”

 

Her voice cracked. “You promise?”

 

“Yes. But we need to intubate him now. He’s been down too long. This will give his body the chance to rest.”

 

Ariana nodded, stepping forward one last time. She leaned close to his ear. “Daddy, I need you to stay. We’ve still got things to do. I’m not ready to do any of it without you.”

 

She pressed a kiss to his hand, still holding the faintest trace of warmth, then stepped back to let them work.

 

This wasn’t over. Not yet. Hope, fragile but fierce, clung to her like a second heartbeat. They would fight this—together.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

The Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit at St. Barnabas Hospital had been Ariana’s reluctant sanctuary for the past five days. Its walls, pale and humming with quiet urgency, held the sterile rhythm of survival. The steady hiss and beep of machines disrupted the stillness, while the clinical scent of alcohol swabs tangled oddly with the lingering sweetness of her candy apple lotion. Every so often, she dabbed a little on her hands, clinging to the faint, familiar scent like it might keep her grounded.

 

She watched her father’s chest rise and fall in perfect time with the ventilator, its mechanical breath now his own. His skin, once sun-warmed and full of motion, lay pale and still beneath the harsh lighting. Plastic tubes twisted like ivy across his body—tethers both to life and to limbo. Leaning forward, her trembling fingers brushed his hand, desperate to bridge the distance between them.

 

“Dad,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “Can you hear me?”

 

The silence that followed was deafening. It pressed against her like a weight, thick and unrelenting. Every day in this room felt longer than the one before, his unchanging condition a grim metronome ticking out her dread. She shut her eyes, holding back the tears that clawed their way to the surface.

 

“Hey, you,” came Jon’s gentle voice, grounding her again. “You okay?”

 

He had barely left her side since he’d arrived—only stepping away to stretch or bring back food she never touched. She opened her eyes and blinked away the haze of grief, looking up into his face. The warmth in his deep blue eyes clashed sharply with the cold sterility surrounding them.

 

“Not really,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I just… I can’t believe this is happening.”

 

He reached for her hand and gave it a soft, reassuring squeeze. “Oh, Crash. I wish there was more I could do.”

 

“More?” Her laugh came out brittle and raw. “What more can either of us do? The doctors already said there's nothing left.”

 

“We could talk to them again. Get a second opinion,” he offered gently, his grip tightening.

 

She shook her head, the weight of the looming decision pressing against her ribcage like a boulder. They’d spoken of this moment in whispers—distant, hypothetical—but now it had come to claim its due.

 

“What’s the point?” she said, her voice flat. “They’ve made it clear. He’s not coming back.”

 

Jon drew in a long breath, choosing his next words carefully. Sal wasn’t just her father—he was her compass, her anchor. Thinking about a world without him felt impossible.

 

“Crash, I just want to help you. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

 

She met his eyes, and the love reflected there steadied her. “Right now… I’m not alone. I have you.”

 

“Then let me help you.” His thumb traced gentle circles over the back of her hand. “Please.”

 

Her voice trembled. “What if... what if letting him go is the right thing to do?”

 

“It might be,” he said softly. “Think about what Sal would want.”

 

She jerked her hand away and stood abruptly. The sudden movement sent a rush of air into her lungs, but the tightness in her chest didn’t budge.

 

“Why would you say that?” she snapped. “How would you know what he wants? He was laughing five days ago, making me breakfast, telling me I was ridiculous. You didn’t see that.”

 

He stood too, but his voice remained steady. “No, I didn’t. But I’ve known Sal for twelve years. I know the light in him. And now…” He gestured toward the beeping, breathing machines. “The man I know—he’s not here, is he?”

 

Her back to him, she clutched the edge of her father’s bed like a lifeline. “Stop. I… I can’t think about that. Not yet.”

 

“Then let’s talk to the doctors. We’ll figure this out together.”

 

She swiped at the tears streaking her cheeks. “And if they say it’s time? That there’s no coming back?”

 

“Then we’ll honor him,” Jon said, his voice a balm against her fraying nerves. “We’ll remember every moment that mattered. And you won’t have to do any of this alone. I swear.”

 

The shrill alarm of the monitor pierced the air, yanking her from Jon’s arms and back into the nightmare.

 

“Dad! Daddy!” she cried, panic overtaking her.

 

Jon was at her side in a heartbeat. “Crash, breathe. Just breathe.”

 

Her voice collapsed into a whisper. “What if he’s suffering? What if he’s in pain and can’t tell us?”

 

Jon leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Then… then you let him go.”

 

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “I don’t know if I can…”

 

“You can,” he murmured, his hand steady on her back. “You’re stronger than you think. And I’ll be right here.”

 

She turned to her father again, hoping for something—anything. His eyelids remained shut, his chest moving only by the machine’s will. She pulled the chair close and slipped her fingers into his, searching for a flicker of life she knew she wouldn't find.

 

Jon stood behind her, silent, watching her with a tenderness sharpened by helplessness. Sal hadn’t just raised her; he had shaped her world. Boss, best friend, protector. Letting him go would tear her in half.

 

“Crash,” Jon said softly, “we should speak with the doctor.”

 

Her voice came out a breath. “Okay. The thought of losing him is killing me, too.”

 

“I know. But we need to know everything before we decide.”

 

She nodded, her whole body heavy as they stepped into the quiet hallway of the CICU. With every footfall toward the nurses’ station, her nerves coiled tighter.

 

“Is Dr. Peña still here?” Jon asked, his voice calm but urgent.

 

The nurse nodded, her expression soft. “I’ll check if he’s available.”

 

Each minute dragged like an hour. When Dr. Peña finally arrived, his face bore the calm gravity of someone who had walked countless families through this same storm.

 

“Hello, Ariana. Jon,” he said with a measured tone. “Thank you for reaching out. There are some things we should discuss.”

 

Her stomach twisted. “How bad is it?”

 

He glanced at Jon before turning back to her. “Your father was critical when admitted. At this point… we’ve exhausted all our options.”

 

“What does that mean?” Her voice cracked, afraid of the answer.

 

“He’s being sustained by the ventilator,” Peña explained gently. “There’s been no neurological improvement. Even if he were to regain consciousness, the damage would be significant.”

 

“Significant how?” she asked, gripping the chair’s arm.

 

“Severe impairment. His ability to speak, to move, even to recognize loved ones—those functions may never return.”

 

Her tears came freely now. “I don’t want to lose him.”

 

Jon stepped closer, resting a steady hand on her shoulder. “We’ll face this together.”

 

Dr. Peña gave her a nod. “Take the time you need. I’ll be nearby.”

 

Once the doctor left, Jon turned to her. “It’s your call, Crash. No one else’s. But think about what’s best for Sal—not just what you want.”

 

“I am,” she whispered. “It’s just… hard.”

 

“I’m here,” he said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

 

“I just want to sit with him.”

 

“Then let’s go.”

 

They returned to the room, her hand finding his again. She sank back into the chair beside her father, her heart a knot of grief and love.

 

“Hey, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice a tremble. “If you can hear me… please give me a sign. Just one.”

 

The silence in the room deepened, and she bowed her head, aching for the impossible.

 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

 

“What’s happening?” she gasped, as the monitor’s alarm surged, each shrill note more frantic than the last.

 

Jon rushed to her. Nurses swarmed the room.

 

“His heart rate is dropping! We’re losing him!” one nurse shouted.

 

“Dad!” she sobbed, clutching his hand. “Daaad!”

 

Jon held her close, anchoring her as chaos erupted around them.

 

And in that chaos, she found clarity.

 

“Let him go,” she whispered, barely more than breath.

 

Jon’s grip around her tightened. “Crash… are you sure?”

 

She nodded, eyes brimming. “I can’t watch him suffer anymore.”

 

A nurse looked to her. “Are you ready?”

 

She drew in a long, trembling breath. And something inside her—just barely—let go.

 

“Yes. It’s time.”

 

The machines softened their song. The air grew still.

 

“I love you, Daddy. Always,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his.

 

Wrapped in Jon’s arms, tears spilling freely, she let the storm wash over her—because this time, she didn’t have to weather it alone.

 

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

Jon stood by the window of their suite in the St. James Hotel, gazing out at the Montreal skyline as dusk softened the city with a warm, amber glow. The vibrant life below—the twinkling lights, the distant hum of traffic—felt like another universe compared to the aching silence inside him.

 

The funeral replayed in his mind like an unshakable loop. Watching Sal’s casket descend into the earth had been unbearable. Each shovelful of soil landing with a dull thud felt like it was being shoveled straight onto his chest.

 

He glanced back at the bed. She lay there, barely a silhouette against the muted linens, tangled in the sheets, her body sunken with exhaustion and grief. Her curls spilled across the pillow like a black veil. In the four days they’d been holed up here, she’d hardly moved. He approached the bed carefully, not wanting to disturb what little peace she had managed to find. The funeral had broken something inside her, and he was helpless to fix it. His stomach clenched as she let out a soft moan. He reached out, gently brushing a tendril of hair from her face.

 

“Crash,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You need to eat.”

 

“No!”

 

“Just a little something,” he said, pleading now.

 

“I’m not hungry!” she snapped, curling tighter into the blanket, as if it could shield her from everything.

 

He exhaled, raking his hand through his hair. “What if I order that awful stuff you like?”

 

“Jon, I just can’t,” she murmured, her voice breaking, thin and frail.

 

Her words hung between them like fog. He stepped closer.

 

“You can’t shut me out forever,” he said gently.

 

Tears rimmed her eyes, and when she turned to face him, the pain there pierced him.

 

“I’m not shutting you out. I just… I don’t know how to live without him.”

 

“Oh, Crash.” He swallowed hard. “I won’t pretend I understand what you’re going through. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“I feel so lost.” Her voice cracked as a single tear escaped down her cheek.

 

“But you’re not alone,” he said softly. “You’ve got people—Lili, Cara, Max. And me. You’ll always have me.”

 

She hesitated, the war playing out on her face: despair against the faintest flicker of hope. At last, she gave a slight nod.

 

“Okay,” she whispered. “Order some food.”

 

He moved into the living area and picked up the phone. His finger hovered over the keypad for a moment before pressing the number. After placing the order, he paced the room, casting anxious glances toward the bedroom. He wanted to pull her out of this darkness, but all he could do was reach, and hope she met him halfway.

 

Eventually, he sank into the armchair by the window. The city lights had bloomed against the velvet sky, twinkling like distant stars. He closed his eyes and tried to quiet the storm inside.

 

His thoughts turned to Sal—the deep, booming laughter, the warm claps on the back, the way he made even the most chaotic tour feel like home. Twelve years. More than a colleague. He was family. And now, just like that, he was gone.

 

Sal had never been one for grand goodbyes. It was always “See ya around, kid,” or “Catch ya on the flip side.” Jon wished now that he’d hugged him longer, said something more. Anything.

 

A gentle knock at the door snapped him out of the memory. He rose, stepping aside to let the server in. The pungent scent of Chinese pâté filled the room. He grimaced. He still didn’t understand how she could stomach the stuff, but if it got her to eat, he’d suffer through it.

 

“Crash, dinner’s here.”

 

She emerged slowly from the bedroom, each step a quiet struggle. She looked fragile but present. When she spotted the table, a faint smile touched her lips.

 

“Did you really order me Chinese pâté?”

 

“I told you I would.”

 

Her hand trembled as she picked up the fork. “I don’t know if this was a good idea.”

 

“Just a few bites,” he coaxed. “For Sal.”

 

He held his breath as she lifted the first forkful. She chewed slowly, the motion labored but deliberate.

 

“Eating and getting strong—that’s how you honor him,” Jon said softly. “He’d want you to take care of yourself.”

 

She pierced another piece, then paused, inhaling deeply before taking it in. He watched as the tension in her shoulders eased ever so slightly. It was progress—a quiet, tentative step back toward the world.

 

They ate in near silence, broken only by the gentle clink of forks against porcelain. He kept his eyes on her, seeing the faintest flush return to her cheeks. It wasn’t a cure. It wasn’t over. But it was something.

 

A flicker in the dark. A beginning.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

The warm glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in a soft amber hush, casting long shadows over the scattered remnants of the week—half-unpacked bags, crumpled tissues, a worn photo of her and Sal at some backstage show. It had been five days since she laid her father to rest. Five days encased in a fog of sorrow and silence. She hadn’t left the hotel room. Hadn’t answered the phone. Hadn’t looked out the window without flinching. Their once-cherished retreat, a place that once echoed with laughter and whispered secrets, now felt stifled under the gravity of loss.

 

She sat curled in the armchair like a question mark, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees as she watched him. Jon was stretched out on the bed, the gentle light playing across the quiet contours of his face. Even in sleep, he looked so achingly serene, his features softened by exhaustion and patience. She had lost track of how long she’d been watching him, clinging to the steady rise and fall of his chest as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the present. His breath, his nearness, his quiet sighs—they reminded her of the love they had built, thread by fragile thread, over the years. But tonight, even his presence couldn’t ease the ache pressing against her ribs.

 

Grief rolled through her in waves, relentless and merciless. The images returned unbidden—the scream of sirens, the cold fluorescent lights, the antiseptic haze of hospital corridors. Sal’s heart attack had come like a thief in the night, stealing the one constant in her life. She had begged, pleaded, prayed in those sterile trauma rooms, then sat helpless by his side in CICU, waiting for a miracle that never came. When his chest stilled and monitors fell silent, something inside her had gone still too.

 

And then came the funeral. The sea of dark suits. The hollow condolences. The unbearable sound of dirt hitting the casket. She could still hear it.

 

Guilt crept in like smoke beneath a door. Guilt for leaning so heavily on the man asleep on the bed. Jon had dropped everything—tours, obligations, his own grieving process—to hold her together. He had wrapped her in his arms like a shield against the storm, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a burden. That what they shared was a comfort borrowed, not earned. How could she cling to him, to his goodness, when nothing in her life felt like it belonged to her anymore?

 

Slowly, she uncurled from the chair and crossed the room, barefoot and silent. The city sparkled beyond the glass, each twinkling light a reminder that the world still moved forward, indifferent to her shattered heart. Cars hummed in the distance, a quiet lullaby of strangers continuing their lives. A small part of her longed to crawl back under the covers, into the familiar safety of Jon’s arms, to bury her face in his chest and pretend the world beyond didn’t exist. But every shared breath, every kiss since the funeral felt like betrayal—not only to her father’s memory, but to the fragile truth Jon didn’t yet know. She couldn’t let this continue. Not like this.

 

At the desk, she pulled out the hotel stationery. Her fingers trembled as she uncapped the pen. The words came slowly, jagged and raw. She told him thank you—for his kindness, for his strength, for staying when he had every reason to run. She confessed the truth that gnawed at her: that she didn’t deserve him, not really. That her grief had made her selfish. That she needed to find her footing again before she could let anyone else carry her weight.

 

Tears streaked silently down her cheeks as she signed her name. She folded the paper with aching care and placed it gently on the pillow beside him. Her fingertips brushed the cotton, and for a moment she stayed there, letting the softness of it burn into her memory.

 

She gathered her backpack and moved toward the door. The handle was cool in her grasp. She hesitated. Part of her wanted to wake him, to say goodbye out loud, to give him a chance to stop her. But that would make it harder—for both of them.

 

“I’m sorry, Jonny,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the hum of the city.

 

Then, before her resolve could falter, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the weight of her absence already filling the space behind her.

 

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

My sweet Jonny,

 

Once again, it’s just you and me, locked away from the world outside — and oh, what I wouldn’t give for it to be on happier terms. My heart is dark and gray, just like the sky peeking through the curtain. Watching you sleep these past few hours, I’ve tried to find the right words to tell you what having you here these two weeks has meant to me.

 

I don’t deserve you. I must admit, when it came to our relationship, I haven’t always played nice. There were moments I was downright cruel, letting my fear tear us apart — not to mention the countless times I’ve pushed you away and built walls around my heart, convinced that it would protect me. Yet here you are. Without hesitation. Without questions.

 

Everyone knew how much Sal meant to you — especially me. What I didn’t expect when I called to tell you he’d had a heart attack was that you would drop what you were doing and show up at the hospital, risking it all just to sit by my side, day after day, night after night. And on that dreadful day, when the doctor told us there was nothing else they could do, you held me tight while he took his last breath. In my darkest moment consumed with pain and grief, you were my lifeline when I was drowning, my air when I couldn’t breathe, and in the days that followed, you helped me see clearly when my tears made it impossible to.

 

How do you thank someone for loving you? For stitching the frayed edges of my heart? I couldn’t have faced any of this without you. I’m not sure if I can continue too either. 

 

Once more, it feels like I’m teetering on the ledge at the thought of losing you — just like every time before, when one of us had to walk away. Too many goodbyes filled with silences of everything we couldn’t say.

 

And right now, I’m not ready to face that darkness. Which is why I need to leave. 

 

Please don’t be angry with me. My heart is still too fragile for more goodbyes. I’m just grateful I don’t have to look into your eyes and say this, because I know without a doubt you’d try to convince me otherwise. 

 

So, all I have to give you right now is the truth, however small, however broken.

 

 Thank you for loving me.

 

Crash