Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 29

He exhales, and I feel it, a tremor in his spine. A soft unraveling. He presses his forehead against my collarbone like he’s afraid he might disappear if he lets go.

And I think about abandonment.

How it doesn’t always come with slammed doors or shouting matches. Sometimes it’s quiet. It’s a room that stays silent when you cry. A mother who smiles but no longer stays. A father who walks past you like your dreams are too loud. Sometimes, abandonment teaches you that one wrong move is all it takes to lose everything.

That no matter how hard you try, you will never be enough. That you will always be the second option, the backup plan, the apology no one wants to hear. And when you start to believe that, you stop fighting for your place in people’s lives. You just wait to be erased. I don’t want that for James.

Or for anyone.

I want him to believe, truly believe, that someone can see all of him and still stay. Even when he’s messy. Even when he messes up. That love doesn’t have to be something you beg for on the sidewalk.

That it can be something that holds your hand and simply says:

I’m not leaving.

So I say it again.

But softer, this time.

“I’m not leaving.”

And we sit there, beneath the indifferent stars and flickering streetlight, two shadows pressed into each other like puzzle pieces that never quite fit, but keep trying anyway.

And maybe that’s love.

Or maybe it’s just hope refusing to die.

We fall into silence again.

Not the heavy kind. Not the one that drowns. This one feels like a bandage. Like we’ve said everything we needed to say just by staying.

Then James shifts beside me. His ice cream’s melted to the bottom of the cup, dripping through the side onto his fingers. He looks down, sighs, and licks the mess off without complaint.

I smile a little. It’s such a small thing. But that’s James. Always tasting the sweetness, even after it’s melted. Even when the world tells him he doesn’t deserve any.

A breeze passes. The trees above us rustle like they’re whispering secrets we’ll never understand.

Then something flutters down, soft, unexpected.

A small yellow flower, maybe from a tree nearby, lands right on James’s lap.

He blinks at it. “Is that…?”

I take it gently before the wind can carry it away. It’s imperfect. A little bruised at the edge. But still whole. Still here.

“Survivor flower,” I murmur. “My mom used to say if one falls near you, it’s a sign you’re not alone.”

James doesn’t respond. He just watches me tuck the flower into the back of my phone case, right next to the photo of us at the mall, the one where his smile is crooked and mine is too wide. He leans his head on my shoulder.

And I let him.

Because we’re both a little bruised at the edges. But we’re still here. Still trying.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

The car is quiet on the way home. Not awkward quiet... just… heavy. Like the silence has weight, and we’re both trying to carry it without dropping anything.

James’s hand grips mine tightly, his thumb occasionally brushing over my knuckles. He hasn’t said a word since we left the curb. One hand on the wheel, the other laced with mine, like he’s afraid I might vanish if he lets go. His eyes flicker to mine at every red light, and I see it, the sadness still sitting behind his lashes like it built a home there. The desperation that clings to people who’ve never been chosen easily. The kind of desperation that doesn’t fade when someone says I’m staying, because deep down, they don’t believe they’re worthy of someone who actually will.

I squeeze his hand.

But he still holds on like he’s trying to anchor himself to something that believes in him, because maybe, just maybe, that belief is the only thing stopping him from drifting completely.

I wonder how many people are like him.

How many of us are just walking around with holes in our souls, hoping someone else’s faith in us might fill the gaps. Hoping someone will see the version of us we’re trying so hard to become and not the version the world insists is already too far gone.

Because when you’ve been abandoned, by parents, by friends, by your own reflection some days, desperation becomes your second skin. You grip onto the few people who see past the wreckage and say, I still believe in you.

And when someone says that? You don’t let go.

Even if your palms sweat. Even if your knuckles ache. Even if a part of you still thinks they’ll walk away too.

Because it’s not about romance or neediness, it’s survival. It’s knowing that belief, even borrowed, can be the thing that keeps you breathing through the nights when your own heart doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

The engine hums. Streetlights pass above us like soft spotlights, blinking over his face, highlighting the weight he still carries.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

But I feel it in the way he holds my hand, like I’m the last piece of hope he has, and he’s terrified of losing it.

And I know something now.

People don’t just want to be loved.
They want to be believed in.
They want to know someone sees the good in them even when they can’t.
They want to be chosen, again and again, specially on the days they feel least deserving of it.

So I stay quiet, let his grip stay firm, and lean my head on his shoulder as he drives.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for tonight.