Entwined

Offshore Winds

"Oh, Hugo," Madam Redwood greeted, her voice low and cracked.

"Good morning, Madame Redwood," I replied, clearing my throat. "How are you?"

"I am okay, son," she responded.

I couldn't find the words. She didn't seem alright.

"Silas is not here," she added.

"Oh, okay," I replied, though my concern grew.

There was a palpable silence between us, neither of us ready to delve into conversation. I felt a deep worry for her. Our families were close, and I'd known her all my life. She seemed hesitant, avoiding eye contact and fidgeting with the tissue in her hand, while I stood there, waiting for her to speak or close the door.

After a moment, she spoke again. "Hugo, do you have some time? I want to talk to you."

"Yes, sure," I responded.

She invited me in, and we sat at the kitchen table.

"It's safer here," she explained, "if Silas comes in. He normally doesn't come to the kitchen." She wiped her nose with an overused tissue.

"Would you like some tea or coffee? Oh, wait, you're a coffee guy. Give me a minute, I'll make you some," she said hastily.

I was about to refuse, not wanting to disturb her, but she was already heading towards the coffee machine. Minutes later, I found myself sipping on a cup of coffee and munching on some toast and omelet. Madam Redwood seemed to be in better spirits for some reason.

"It's been a while since I made breakfast for someone. My husband is away on a business trip, and Silas, well, he... um... I really don't know where to begin," she said.

Setting my cup down, I recounted, "For some reason, he stopped talking to both me and Cindy, and then he vanished. They had a fight, and he was surprisingly rude."

"Hugo, I fear it runs much deeper than the spat with Cindy," she confided, her tone grave.

My stomach churned, and I turned to her, concern etched on my face. "What do you mean, Madame Redwood?" I inquired, my voice tinged with worry.

"He... um... he's been acting the same way for months now. We thought everything was fine after therapy, but in the last five months, I've noticed him reverting back to his old behaviors," she responded, her eyes welling up with tears.

"Therapy? Same again? Did what again?" I was confused; I had no idea Silas was in therapy, let alone why.

"Therapy?" I asked. "What therapy?"

She hesitated, her demeanor distant.

"Well, I can't share much because Silas wouldn't approve, but when he was four, his teacher noticed troubling behavior. At first, I dismissed it, but on his fifth birthday, he stabbed two kids with a pencil over his toy cars. He showed no remorse. That's when we sought therapy and medication," her voice broke.

Her appearance was as though she'd seen a ghost.

"I'm so sorry, I had no idea. He never mentioned it," I replied.

"We kept it private, especially as he seemed fine with Cindy. Everything seemed normal until recently," she explained tearfully.

I embraced her, waiting for her tears to subside.

"What made you think he's regressing?" I asked softly.

"He obsessively cleans his car collection to vent, but a few weeks ago, he lashed out, slamming me against the wall until I lost consciousness. When I woke, he was gone. Mentioning therapy or meds triggers him," she confessed, her pain evident.

I was baffled. He always appeared composed. "He seemed okay. I never saw him lose control like that. I don't understand," I admitted.

"Nor do I. His psychologist suspects something triggered this relapse, but Silas refuses help," she lamented.

Guilt consumed me, burning like a relentless flame. How could I have been such a terrible friend? I was too absorbed in my own life to notice my best friend's struggles. Sorrow, worry, and guilt tore at my soul. How could I have been so blind? So oblivious?

The truth was undeniable: there's no smoke without fire. The argument with Cindy was just the tip of the iceberg, and I had no inkling of what triggered Silas's mental health decline.

"I'll take care of him. I'll persuade him to seek therapy," I promised Madame Redwood, determined to make amends for my negligence. Her demeanor brightened slightly at my assurance, her complexion regaining some color.

"Thank you, son. And please, don't tell Cindy. He'll never forgive me," she pleaded.

"Don't worry, Madame. I won't," I assured her, holding her in a comforting embrace.

I left after finishing my coffee, but Silas didn't return. Initially, I brushed it off, thinking it was no big deal. But as time passed, I realized the situation was much darker than I'd thought.

Dizziness overwhelmed me as I pondered what could have triggered Silas so intensely. What could have happened to him?

Arriving at university, my mind was elsewhere. I couldn't focus on lectures, my thoughts consumed by how to approach Silas and address the issue. It dawned on me that I didn't truly know my own best friend.

Grabbing my phone, expecting a message from Cindy, I was surprised to find a notification from my weather app. Surfing! The thought struck me. Silas never turned down a surfing session, and the waves were perfect this Saturday. It could be just what we needed—a therapeutic, reconciliatory surfing session.

It felt like the perfect plan, a chance to reconnect and address the underlying issues. This surfing session would be the whole package—a blend of therapy, reconciliation, and simply being together.

I found myself grinning widely at my phone, the heaviness in my chest easing slightly as I mentally prepared for our upcoming getaway. But a voice interrupted my thoughts, pulling me back to reality.

"You're such a nerd. Who gets excited over a weather app? I hope Cindy's rubbing off on you," Phoebe teased, her familiar voice breaking through my reverie.

Turning around, I saw Phoebe, her face radiating happiness. "Oh, look at you, all cheerful," I quipped.

"Yeah, I am. Guess who had an amazing night?" she exclaimed, punctuating her words with a quirky dance.

"You?" I guessed with a smirk.

"Hell yeah," Phoebe confirmed, her grin widening.

"Good for you," I replied, though my mind was elsewhere. As I began to walk away, Phoebe called out to me again.

"Yeah?" I turned back to face her.

"I hope it won't mess up your thing with Cindy," she said cryptically.

"What?" I asked, confusion clouding my thoughts.

"Gregorie's back from the dead," she clarified.

"Okay, Phoebe, it's too early for your guessing games," I responded, a hint of irritation creeping into my tone.

"Nothing, just saying," she shrugged before sauntering off towards the library.

"Weird, weird girl," I muttered to myself, shaking my head. With that distraction behind me, I headed back to my lecture room, attempting to focus on the teacher's explanations.