Page 38 of Before We Break Again
What is Halsey to me?The question hangs in the air, and suddenly, my throat tightens, my chest constricting with a rush of emotions I wasn’t ready to face.How do I even begin to put it into words?How do I explain that she’s not just a person from my past, but a constant presence in my life, even when she’s not around?That she’s woven into everything I am, every memory, every hope I’ve ever had.She’s the one who understood me before I even understood myself, the one who saw the parts of me I tried to hide from the world.
She’s my everything.Always has been.Even when they took her from me, she never really left my heart.
But it wasn’t just that.Halsey ...she’s the one who taught me how to love, really love.Not just her, not just the safe, expected kind of love, but something deeper, something truer.She taught me that love doesn’t have to fit in some neat little box.
That it was okay to love more than one person.With her, I learned that it was safe to let myself fall for a boy, to feel that same rush in my chest when I kissed him that I felt when I kissed her.She showed me that love wasn’t something to hide from, that it was something to embrace—whether it was for her or for him.
She gave me the space to discover myself, to love without fear, to be vulnerable in a way I’d never known I could be.With her, I felt free, like I could strip away all the masks I wore for the world and just ...be.She taught me how to be me, not the version of me everyone else expected.
My pulse quickens as I try to form an answer that doesn’t reveal too much, that won’t betray how deeply she’s still rooted in my heart, even after all this time.“She is ...was ...”I stumble over the words, trying to distance myself, but the truth slips through anyway.“Our relationship is a bit complicated.We were together during high school.You have my full permission to disclose anything to her, I’ll sign whatever you need me to.”
I continue, “She’s important to me.”Even as the words leave my lips, I know they barely scratch the surface.They don’t come close to capturing what she really is to me.What I really want to say is that she’s everything—the reason I ever believed I could be something, someone.The reason I ever dared to dream beyond what others saw in me.She’s the stars in the darkest nights, the constant glow that’s always there, even when the clouds of life try to cover it.
She’s the stars in my sky, the ones I look to when I feel lost, reminding me of my place, of who I am.Without her, I wouldn’t have found the strength to embrace all the pieces of me, even the parts I thought were broken.She’s not just important—she’s everything.
“Halsey is ...everything.”
The surgeon nods once, as though he understands more than I’ve said.“I hope you realize she won’t be able to work with you in a professional capacity.However, she can still help you with your exercises at home.”
“That’s ...good to know,” I respond, but the words feel hollow.I don’t sound sure, and I’m not.
Is she coming?The question gnaws at me.She said she doesn’t know if she can stay, but does this mean she’ll try?Will she try for me?The uncertainty tightens around my chest, making it hard to breathe.I’m sure it’s not something I should ask him, but the thought is burning on the tip of my tongue.I want to beg.
I need her—here, now, more than ever.I need the way she makes everything feel less suffocating, the way she pulls me back when I start spiraling.It feels like she’s the only thing that can anchor me, keep me from drowning in this ocean of doubt and fear.But how do I even begin to say that?How do I ask him to bring her to me, to make her stay, when I’m not even sure if she wants to be a part of me?
It takes every ounce of strength to swallow down the desperation rising in my throat, but the need for her is still there, pulsing, heavy, almost too much to bear.
ChapterTwenty
Halsey
I’ve never setfoot on a private jet before.Actually, I’ve never even flown first class.The idea of reclining in a leather seat, sipping some fancy drink while soaring through the clouds—it’s something I’ve only seen in movies.But apparently, that’s the only way Dustin travels.
This entire world of luxury and excess is just his norm.Something he just jumped back into the moment he left Blissful Meadows and moved back to California.There’s some story about his father having an entire fleet of jets at one point but selling them off—and buying two new ones.Two, of course, just so he can still travel in style.Because why wouldn’t he?
It’s strange to think that despite all the time we spent together, we never really understood the life Dustin came from.We knew he grew up in Los Angeles with two famous parents.We had no idea they were swimming in more money than we could ever imagine.
It’s like he kept his past locked away, like talking about it too much might unravel something inside him.The few times he did let us in, it wasn’t about the glamorous parties or red carpets—it was always in those moments when he seemed ...sad.
Like during his birthdays, for example.He’d mentioned, almost in passing, how his mother would throw these massive, extravagant parties for him.The kind of events you’d see in tabloids or gossip magazines—his friends would come, but so would a bunch of strangers.People he didn’t know, didn’t even care to know.
They’d fill the house, music blaring, laughter filling the mansion until the early hours of the morning.But no matter how big the event, no matter how many people showed up, it always seemed hollow.Like those parties were the only way his mother knew how to show she cared.
The mansion, the staff, the endless luxury—he barely talked about those things.And honestly, we never asked for more.We were afraid, afraid that if we dug too deep, we’d pull at the wrong thread, and Dustin would fall apart.We didn’t want to make him relive those parts of his life, so we just accepted what little he gave us.
When Santos’s Dad was being an asshole, Dust would talk about his father.And those moments—those were harder to hear.His dad was strict, not just in the way dads sometimes are, but relentless.Especially when it came to music.He expected nothing less than perfection from Dustin.Every note, every chord, every performance had to be flawless.Anything less wasn’t just a disappointment—it was an embarrassment.
Dustin would tell us, in that offhand way of his, how his father’s constant corrections and criticisms chipped away at him over time.No matter how hard he practiced, no matter how perfectly he thought he played, it was never enough.
His father always found something—a slight imperfection, a note that wasn’t held long enough, a rhythm just a hair off.And slowly, that constant striving for perfection wore him down, until he stopped believing in himself altogether.
It wasn’t that he lacked talent—far from it.But his father had made him believe that no matter how good he was, he’d never be good enough.That sense of never being enough lingered with him.
Dustin didn’t say it outright, but back in the day you could see it in his eyes when he talked about it.The way his voice tightened, the way he stared off like he’s trying to push the memories back down.You could feel how fragile his self-esteem was, how years of never hearing praise unless it was tied to perfection made him doubt himself in every aspect of his life.
And yet, here he is now, traveling the world in his private jet, brushing off his childhood like it’s nothing more than a distant memory.But I know, deep down, that little boy who just wanted to hear, “You did great, Son” is still in there, hidden beneath the layers of wealth and success.
He carries it with him, those invisible cracks left behind by years of trying to meet his father’s impossible standards.And I wonder, after all this time, what it’ll take for him to finally believe in himself.Is he still patching up the damage, or has he just learned to live with the fractures?
