When his mother trusted me with her son, I could hear the pain in her voice. I could feel his depression pushing down on her shoulders, a weight she'd never told him about because if she did, he'd blame himself and lock his heart up with a titanium key. He knew his mother was sick, she did too, but even though he was gifted at reading other people's emotions and intentions, he wasn't very good at hiding his own.
When his mother trusted me with her son, I was already feeling the weight. He'd told me he loved me before. Well, indirectly, many times, but it was the best he could do. My shoulders were slumping more and more with the lack of honesty in his texts. I'd turned him down because I didn't think of him like that, I felt nothing for him like that. He was my coworker, my friend. He was blaming himself for unspeakable things, and I only knew this because his mother told me what she could remember. He would smile and laugh at my jokes, and sometimes he'd cry in his little corner of the jet, but he'd tuck his face into a book and pretend like he was reading. I wouldn't say anything. If I did, he'd take it as pity. I couldn't let him think that.
When his mother trusted me with her son, she was passing the torch. The only one who could help him was me. I knew that. He was growing tired of thinking people cared. It was fresh after he was kidnapped by Tobias. On one of our cases, he'd told me that he couldn't get the image of the team hovering over him out of his head. That was when I knew it was getting serious. He was fixating on Maeve at one point, but as soon as she was gone, it was back to me. I was a relatively new friend of his—the transition from coworker to friend was a swift one. I was a clean slate, as it were. He was grasping onto me without letting me know. That's what his mother told me, anyway. He was giving up, but if there was one person that didn't know everything about him, it was me. At least, that's what he thought.
When his mother told me that he liked me, I already knew, he'd told me. He was obvious with it, even if he didn't know he was. As time went on, though, the indirect acts of discomfort and frustration were growing, his headaches were more frequent, and his eyes were becoming darker and darker. I wanted to say something about it. I didn't, though. I didn't feel anything for him.
When his mother told me he'd tried to jump from the bridge, I was stunned. I knew which bridge it was. His mother assured me that he was fine, but she couldn't have known. All of her information was being filtered through the doctors at the hospital. He didn't want me to know, and he certainly didn't want me to be visiting his mother. There were lots of things he didn't want me to know that I did, all because of his mother. He was good at acting, but he wasn't good at hiding when his fists would clench under the table when people would doubt him, or when my shoulder bumped his or when I'd tell him to breathe. Sometimes he'd move away from my touch. I would never say anything.
When his mother told me to visit him, I said yes because I missed him. I found him by the shed he'd been kept in with Tobias. There were broken vials of various doses of Dilaudid spread around him like a safety circle. I checked the crooks of his elbows, but there weren't any new needle pricks. He told me to leave with all the conviction of a wilting dandelion and I knew I had to keep him in my sight at all times.
When his mother trusted me with her son, it took me several years to reach him. Now that I've got him, the real story can begin.