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know yet. I was supposed to find out today. But it doesn’t matter, Alex. I wanted to be here. To see how you’re doing.”
    A: “I’m cool. You didn’t have to cut for that.”
    D: “I’m just so glad you’re HERE, Alex. God, I was worried. I couldn’t just leave you. Not after last night. So … how do you feel? I mean — why? You know, last night? When did you
    — what made you do it?”
    A: “Ducky, it’s no big deal. Really.”
    The words smack you. They throw you back.
    The same old lines. Right back to where you left off.
    As if nothing happened.
    You seize up. You feel empty. Helpless. The door is slamming shut again and it feels too familiar.
    Only now you know what’s inside. You know what Alex is holding back.
    And you’ll be damned if you let him get away with it.
    You shout: “How can you say that? How can you possibly say that? Alex, you almost died! I was holding your body. I had to check to see if you were breathing. HOW CAN YOU SAY IT’S
    NO BIG DEAL? You know what you are, Alex? You’re SELFISH. You’re a SELFISH and
    FOOLISH and STUBBORN person who can’t take one second to realize that people care about it. I care about you.”
    You know the words are harsh. You know he’s fragile. But there it is. You had to say it.
    You don’t want praise. You don’t want him to fall all over you with thanks. You don’t want promises and declarations.
    One word is all you need. One word, one LOOK from Alex — some sign that he has heard you, that he understands — and you’ll stick around.
    Anything less and you’ll know it’s time to move on. Leave him to the professionals and pray.
    As hard as that will be.
    Not because you hate him. Not because you don’t want him to get better.
    But because if he can’t value the person who saved his life, if he can’t show some emotion to the person who knows his deepest secret, then that person means nothing to him.
    And you can’t be nothing.
    So you lock eyes with him, waiting for an answer.
    But he turns away, his face still as stone.
    You stand quietly.
    And then you leave.
    Mrs. Snyder is staring at you as you walk through the house. You meet her glance briefly, painfully, but you keep going.
    You hear her running up the stairs as you head out the door.
    You climb into your car, steeling yourself against tears. You turn on the ignition and shift into drive.
    “Ducky! Wait!”
    Mrs. Snyder is running toward you across the lawn.
    You lower the passenger window, and she leans in. “Alex told me he wants to speak to you.
    Please don’t go.”
    You feel numb as you turn the car off. Numb as you walk toward the house. Numb as you enter and climb the stairs.
    Alex’s bedroom door is open.
    His back is to you. He’s looking out the window.
    You stand for a moment, but he doesn’t move.
    So you walk closer.
    And you see that he’s crying.
    “Alex?” you say.
    His face, so blank and unfeeling a moment ago, now looks sunken and hollow. When he speaks, you can barely hear him.
    “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
    You feel your own rage washing away. You reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Just get better,” you whisper back.
    He raises his eyes to the big sycamore tree in the front yard. A faint smile plays across his face.
    “You know what I thought of last night in the hospital? The time I fell out of that tree.”
    You cringe at the memory. You were only ten. You stood there, helpless, while he howled and howled. “I remember.”
    “The pain was unbelievable. I never imagined ANYTHING could hurt so much.”
    “I’d never heard you scream like that.”
    “Well, last night I thought about how falling out of the tree was nothing compared to this.”
    Finally Alex turns toward you.
    He’s looking you straight in the eye.
    You understand.
    Totally.
    And you see why he couldn’t open up.
    It wasn’t your fault.
    Or his.
    Opening up meant feeling that pain.
    So he buried it inside. Until he couldn’t bury it