Page 120 of The Silence Between

“Your work is always competent, always on time. But there's no spark there. No real curiosity.” He paused. “What classes do you actually enjoy?”

The question caught me off guard. “I... what do you mean?”

“I mean, if you could study anything, consequences aside, what would it be?”

“Literature,” I admitted before I could stop myself. “English. Writing. But that's not practical?—“

“Says who?” He leaned against the desk. “The community college has excellent transfer agreements with four-year schools. The English department here is actually quite strong.”

“I have responsibilities,” I said. “I need a degree that leads to a stable job.”

“There are plenty of stable careers in English. Teaching, publishing, library science, technical writing...” He smiled slightly. “Plus, students tend to do better in subjects they're passionate about. Better grades often lead to better opportunities, regardless of the field.”

As I left campus, his words churned in my mind. Could I really justify switching to English? Spending time and money on something I loved instead of something purely practical?

Eleanor had mentioned she'd eventually need someone to handle the bookstore's newsletter and social media presence. Maybe develop author events, coordinate with publishers. Skills an English degree would actually support.

By the time I reached home, I'd pulled up the course catalog on my phone, scrolling through the English department offerings. American Literature. Creative Writing. Contemporary Fiction. Classes that made my heart beat faster just reading the descriptions.

Maybe it wasn't about choosing between practical and passionate. Maybe, for once, they could be the same thing.

The thought followed me through dinner preparations and homework help, lingering as I tucked Sophie in and discussed Mari's latest college application essay. Even as I paid bills at the kitchen table, that quiet possibility remained, warming me from within like a small flame that refused to be extinguished by practical concerns or old fears. Later that night, after the apartment had gone quiet and sleep eluded me, I texted Ethan and asked if he'd meet me at our spot. Some conversations needed open sky and familiar ground, even if that ground held complicated memories.

The railroad bridge looked different in moonlight—less threatening than it had been that desperate day, more peaceful. The concrete support where I'd once stood ready to end everything now felt like just another place, its power to terrify diminished through deliberate confrontation.

“You sure you want to be here?” Ethan asked beside me, his voice gentle in the night air.

“I need to be,” I replied, settling on the concrete ledge safely behind the railing. “I can't let one bad day define this place forever.”

He nodded, understanding as he always seemed to, and sat beside me, our shoulders just touching. The casual contact no longer felt dangerous—the physical manifestation of an emotional connection that had deepened and evolved through crisis and recovery.

Below us, the River Slate flowed dark and constant, carrying fallen leaves toward some distant destination. The town spread out on either bank, East and West Riverton no longer quite as divided as they once had been. New businesses had opened on the East side. Community projects had created shared spaces. The strict separation that had defined my childhood was gradually softening, bridges forming where barriers had once stood.

“I've been thinking about my tattoo,” I said, tracing the semicolon on my wrist. “About what it means now.”

“And what does it mean?” Ethan asked, his attention focused entirely on me in that way that still sometimes took my breath away—as if my thoughts were the most important thing in his world at that moment.

“When I first got it, it meant just... continuing. Surviving. Not ending the sentence.” I looked out over the water, gathering my thoughts. “But now I think it's about revision. About continuing differently. Not just enduring the same patterns that led to breaking, but consciously changing them.”

“A thoughtful pause before a new direction,” Ethan suggested.

“Exactly.” I turned to him, really looking at him in the moonlight. “I couldn't have done this without you, you know. Found this new direction.”

“You would have found your way eventually,” he said, humble as always about his role in my recovery. “You're stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

“Maybe. But I'm glad I didn't have to find out.” I hesitated, then placed my hand deliberately over his where it rested on the concrete between us, the semicolon on my wrist visible against his skin. “I'm glad you're here.”

He turned his hand to interlace our fingers, the gesture simple but profound in its deliberate connection. “So am I.”

We sat there in comfortable silence, watching the river flow beneath us, the town spread out around us, the stars scattered overhead. Not a perfect ending—recovery never really ended—but a continuation. A revision. A story extending beyond what could have been its final period.

A semicolon, marking both what had come before and what might still follow.

* * *

Six months later,the spring sunshine warmed the small gathering in Riverton Park. Sophie had insisted on having her fourteenth birthday celebration outdoors, claiming she'd “suffocate from boredom” if we had it in the apartment again.

“More cake?” Mari offered, already cutting another slice before I could answer.

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