Page 36 of The Beautiful Collision
Three words. That’s all I managed. Three words that took me twenty minutes to type, delete, retype, stare at, almost delete again, and finally send in a moment of stupid, vulnerable hope. The read receipts appeared almost immediately. Both my brother and sister saw it. And then… nothing.
The silence is louder than any response could have been.
They don’t care about me or my life, and they agree with our parents. I’m the disappointment. The one who threw away her Chestnut Hill pedigree to “play nurse” and live “common.” And the mocking blue checkmarks showing they’ve seen the message but chosen not to respond is confirmation enough.
“Everything okay?” Maine’s voice cuts through my spiral. He’s looking at me from the couch with genuine concern.
This is real, and it’s directed at me, and I have no idea what to do with it. “Fine,” I say automatically, putting my phone face-down. “Just checking the time.”
He doesn’t call me on the obvious lie, just nods and turns back to Chloe, who’s dozed off against his shoulder. The ugly quilt is tucked around her with the same care I use to prep sterile fields in the skills lab—every corner precise, every fold intentional.
I look down at my textbook so he doesn’t see the tears welling in my eyes—at the sight of him and Chloe, or the silence from my siblings, I’m not sure—but the words blur together. All I can think about is the way he didn’t push, didn’t pry. In my world—my family’s world—weakness is something to be scorned.
But Maine just… let it go. Like my privacy mattered. Like I was allowed to have feelings I would rather not dissect for public consumption.
There’s a knock on the door—the same one as earlier—and suddenly the apartment transforms. Maine’s spine straightens, his expression rearranging itself into something looser, easier. By the time his parents walk through the door, the Maine Show is back for a new season.
“There they are!” He grins, but I can see the effort it costs him, the way his jaw tightens just before the smile spreads.
His mother barely glances at him, her attention laser-focused on Chloe. “How was she? Any coughing fits? Did she take her four o’clock dose?”
“She’s fine, Mom. Haven’t lost a patient yet.” The joke lands flat, his mother already reaching for Chloe, checking her color, her breathing, her temperature.
His father hovers by the door, keys jangling in that universal signal ofwe need to leave now. “Thanks for this, buddy. We really needed the break.”
“No problem.” Maine’s voice is steady, but his hands clench briefly at his sides before relaxing. “Anytime.”
They’re already bundling Chloe up, and neither of them asks Maine how his day was, or his week, or his year. Neither of them notices the exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes or the way he’s lost weight, his jeans hanging lower on his hips than they did when I first moved in. They don’t even ask about me.
Do they know his last roommate left?
He’s invisible to them. Not ignored, exactly, because that would require them to see him first. He’s just… not there. A functional part of the family machinery that’s working as expected, so why examine it too closely when there are other things that need their attention?
After an awkward hug goodbye, Maine cracks a gag and tells them to drive safe, still playing the part. Then they’re gone, and the door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
And then Maine just… crumbles.
His knees hit the floor first, then his back slides down the door until he’s sitting on our cheap linoleum, head in his hands. The transformation is so complete, so devastating, that I actually gasp.
My body moves before my brain catches up, and suddenly I’m sliding down the wall to sit near him, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to respect the raw vulnerability radiating from every line of his body.
This is it, a voice in my head whispers.He’s vulnerable. One touch, one soft word, and you could start reeling him in. The bet would be as good as won.
The thought makes me physically ill. I shove it down with the rest of my family’s toxic lessons about exploitation and advantage. This moment isn’t about any stupid bet. This is about a human being who just spent two hours caring for his sick sister while his parents treated him like free medical equipment.
But what do I even say?
It’s clear we’rebothso fucked up, so trained to deflect and perform, that genuine connection feels like speaking a foreign language neither of us quite remembers learning.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we can’t say. I can hear him breathing—rough, uneven, like he’s put all his energy into Chloe and now he’s fighting not to completely fall apart. My chest feels tight, my eyes burning with tears I refuse to let fall.
I need to fix this. Not because I want to win some stupid bet, but because Maine—the guy I watched care for someone so completely for the last two hours—deserves better than sitting on the floor, forgotten and exhausted and so utterly alone despite being surrounded by people who claim to love him.
But I don’t know how to fix real things. I only know how to throw parties and make people forget their problems for a fewhours. I know how to mix drinks and curate playlists and create spaces where everyone’s too drunk and happy to remember what hurts.
It works for me, and it’s my gift to others.
It’s not enough, but it’s all I have.
