When You Stop Reaching Out First Novels & Stories

And it meant making sure that Zayn never found out about the kids—not yet, anyway. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way,” I said, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside me. After a few more minutes of catching up, we said our goodbyes, and I ended the call, staring at my phone for a long moment. I had done it. I had reached out, taken the first step back. But now, standing at the edge of this decision, I wasn’t sure what came next.

“You think words will save you. They won’t. Show her something she can’t ignore.” “Like what?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s your homework. But I’ll tell you this—you can’t fight silence with silence. If she’s shutting you out, you need to be the noise she can’t block.” It sounded reckless. Dangerous. But maybe he was right. Because what I’d been doing so far—pleading in hallways, lingering in art rooms—it wasn’t working. She was untouchable now. And if I wanted to reach her, I’d have to be willing to bruise my own hands against her walls.

"But how do I stop feeling like I'm still. waiting for something that'll never happen?" Saben's face relaxed, and he leaned over, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You stop waiting for someone who doesn't deserve it. You stop believing that the past is something you have to walk down again. You've already taken a step into a new chapter, Jenny. And that's a powerful thing."

Hell, I hadn't spoken to my own family yet, and I didn't see that happening any time soon. What do I do...? When I decided to lock myself away, I'd had a plan. And in this plan, once I felt I could pick myself up and give life a try again, I would reconnect with the peo-ple I was currently pushing away. If I had to be honest to myself, Sophia wasn't only on the list, but among one of the first people I would reach out to, besides my parents and even above my best friend.

Not holding on. Letting go before you become the thing that breaks the person you care about most. My hands shake as I finally type a response. I stare at it for almost thirty seconds before forcing myself to hit send. I think we need a little space again. The second the message sends— My entire chest shatters. Because deep down? I already know. This time— It’s not space I’m asking for. It’s goodbye.

“How?” I don’t answer immediately. Because the answer isn’t clean. It’s not something she’s going to like. “Don’t try to say your name,” I say. She stares at me. “What?” “Stop reaching for it.” “That’s the opposite of what I should be doing.” “No,” I shake my head. “That’s what it expects you to do.” “And if I don’t?” “It has nothing to replace.” Silence. Then— “That sounds like giving up.” “It’s not.”

“I’ve known since day one you weren’t over him. You’ve been dodging it, burying it in work, but I see it, Jace. You miss him.” Jace rubbed his forehead, frustrated by the truth in her words. “I… I don’t know how to fix it, Sasha. I can’t just… call him. After everything…” Sasha placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Sometimes, you have to stop overthinking. You can’t control everything. You just… start small. Reach out. Let him see you care.” He nodded slowly, not entirely convinced, but her words planted a seed in his heart.

“Tell me what you need. Tell me how to fix this.” “That’s just it—you can’t ask me to tell you. You have to figure it out yourself.” I hold his gaze. “For months, I made myself smaller, hoping you’d notice me. I reached for you over and over to come out from your shell but you always pulled away. I’m not doing that anymore.” “I’m not asking you to…” “Aren’t you?” My voice cracks despite my efforts to stay strong. “You want me to say it’s okay, that I forgive you, that we can just move forward because you’ve finally realized what you want. But it doesn’t work like that.”

"It’s your first day. You need to be patient." I don’t feel patient; I feel useless. --- The next day, we give it another shot. I sit in front of Greta, close my eyes, and search for that warmth again. It’s still coiled there, still waiting. I breathe deeply, trying to relax and let it come. Nothing. "Maybe I don’t have it," I say flatly. "Maybe what happened with Damian was just a fluke—a one-time thing." Greta shakes her head. "It’s not gone; it just isn’t ready yet. You’re trying to run before you can walk."

For the first time in years, I stopped waiting. It happened gradually. It started so gradually that I didn't notice it at first. One day I stopped checking the clock every fifteen minutes. The next day I stopped texting Ryan to ask when he would be home. A few days later, I stopped leaving dinner in the oven for him. Then I stopped falling asleep on the couch waiting for the sound of his car pulling into the driveway. I simply stopped. And surprisingly, the world didn't end. Ryan still came home late. Our house was still quiet.