Page 97 of Midnight Between Us
And I don’t know what’s worse—that he said it ...or that he’s not wrong.
ChapterForty-Five
Keir
The houseno longer feel haunted.
Not in the way it did when I first arrived—when every corner echoed with things I didn’t remember and a version of myself I couldn’t recognize.Now it just feels ...quiet.
The suitcase doesn’t take long to pack.A few changes of clothes.The black notebook.The folder with Simone’s notes from therapy and the exercises she kept making me do even when I bitched about them.I toss in the hardcover book Atlas left on the counter—something about rebuilding identity after trauma.I haven’t read it yet, but I’m bringing it anyway.
The library’s still.The letters are where I left them, tucked back in the box like they’re waiting for a man who’s not quite me yet.
I don’t take them with me.
Not because I don’t want to finish them.
But because I’m starting to understand that some things don’t belong to me until I earn the right to carry them.
I write her a note.No grand declarations.No manipulative apologies.Just a single page, folded once, left on the edge of the armchair where I spent more time unraveling than healing.
Sims:
Thank you for saving me when you could have just let me bleed inside a trunk.
Thank you for not giving up on me since I woke up and for ...still being here, even when it hurts too fucking much.
Thank you for the truth.For the letters.For not pretending it didn’t break you.
I’m going to get help.Not just to be a better man for Lyndon or for you.
For myself.
I’ll reach out when I feel like I’ve become the version of myself I deserve.
–Keir T.
When I walktoward the living room, I find Atlas standing up.“Were you able to help me?”
“Yeah, he’s sending you to Luna Harbor.There are plenty of people there to babysit you while you get physical and psychological help.”
“Thank you.”
“Packed light,” he says, nodding at my single duffel bag.
“Didn’t bring my guilt,” I reply.“Figured I’d carry that on the inside.Then bring the few clothes I have here with me.”
He smirks and then nods for me to follow him.“Nice to see your sense of humor survived the emotional meat grinder,” he says as we leave the house and head to his truck.
I nod toward the passenger side.“We going, or just going to stand here and pretend we’re not both avoiding tears?”
“God, please don’t cry,” Atlas mutters.“I barely survived you sobbing over that letter about his tiny toes.”
I snort, but it’s hollow.We both know there’s nothing funny about any of this.Still, the banter makes the silence less unbearable.
We don’t speak much on the ride.Just the hum of the road, the occasional comment about the weather.I keep thinking I’ll turn back around, that I’ll remember something urgent I forgot.But there’s nothing.
“You know this isn’t a clean slate, right?”
