Chapter 4 4

Patrick and I had settled into a strange, unspoken routine. We weren't best friends, but the tension between us had lessened. We no longer avoided each other, but instead, shared small moments: a smile over breakfast, brief exchanges between classes, and conversations that weren't as forced as they used to be.

Despite the growing understanding between us, there was still this lingering awkwardness, a quiet distance that seemed to hover whenever our interactions grew too personal. It wasn't as though either of us were actively trying to keep secrets from the other, but there was something inherently difficult about sharing too much. About letting someone in completely.

That was the problem. We both had walls built up. And while we had both cracked them open a bit, the walls still loomed, tall and strong, keeping us at arm's length.

I had noticed Patrick was more quiet than usual, withdrawn in a way that felt different from his typical aloofness. He would disappear for hours, telling me he was "going for a walk" or "getting some fresh air," but his absences seemed more frequent lately. Whenever I asked him what was going on, he would brush me off, claiming he was just "working through stuff." He was always working through stuff. But what exactly was that stuff?

There was no point in pressing him; I knew he would never give me a straight answer. But still, it gnawed at me.

It was a rainy Friday afternoon when it all came to a head. I was sitting in the kitchen, scrolling through my phone while the storm raged outside. I had just finished my homework and was planning to make myself a cup of tea when Patrick walked in. His hair was wet from the rain, and his jacket clung to him as though he had been caught in a downpour.

"You're soaked," I said, glancing up at him from my phone. "Where have you been?"

He didn't respond immediately. His gaze shifted to the window, his eyes distant. He was quiet for a long moment before finally answering, his voice softer than usual.

"Just... clearing my head," he said, the words carrying a weight I couldn't place.

I frowned, setting my phone down and standing up. "Patrick, what's going on? You've been like this for days. I know something's bothering you. You can't keep shutting me out."

His eyes flicked to mine, and I saw a flash of frustration flicker behind them. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he finally spoke.

"I don't want to drag you into my mess," he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. "It's not something you need to worry about."

I crossed my arms, taking a step closer. "I'm your step-sister, Patrick. That means something. I don't care if it's complicated. I care about you."

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, a battle waging behind his eyes, before he finally dropped his gaze, running a hand through his wet hair. The action seemed like a release, a crack in the wall he had built around himself.

"I don't know how to deal with all of this," he said quietly. "With you, with my dad, with... everything. Everything's changing, and I feel like I'm losing control."

I didn't know what to say to that, but I knew one thing: I wasn't going to let him go through this alone. So I stepped forward, reaching out to gently place a hand on his arm.

"Patrick," I said, my voice calm, "I'm here. No matter what you're going through, you don't have to do it by yourself."

He was silent, staring down at my hand on his arm as though he was contemplating something deep. After a moment, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

"I know," he murmured. "I just don't know how to... let people in."

I gave a soft sigh, my hand sliding off his arm. "You don't have to let me in all at once. Just... take your time. But don't shut me out completely."

He met my gaze then, his expression softened, though the shadows of whatever weighed on him remained.

"I'll try," he said, his voice thick with something unspoken.

There was a heaviness between us then, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like the first time he had allowed himself to truly acknowledge my presence, to see me as someone he could trust. It was a small step, but it meant everything to me.

---

The next few days passed uneventfully, but I could tell Patrick was still struggling. We shared small moments, but there was still something off. He would disappear for long periods, and even when he was home, he was distant, like he was miles away in his head.

One evening, as the sun began to set, I found myself walking through the house, looking for him. It was one of those rare moments when I didn't feel like just retreating into my own world. I needed to check on him. To see how he was really doing.

I finally found him in the backyard, standing near the edge of the garden, looking out into the woods that bordered the property. His posture was tense, his shoulders rigid as he stared off into the distance, as if the weight of the world was resting on them.

I hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to approach. But I couldn't just leave him there, isolated in his thoughts. So I took a deep breath and walked toward him.

"Patrick?" I called softly, my voice cutting through the silence.

He turned slowly, his eyes slightly unfocused, as though he hadn't expected anyone to find him. For a moment, we just stood there, looking at each other.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice steady but filled with concern. "I know you're not okay. You've been shutting everyone out, and I... I can't keep pretending like I don't notice."

Patrick's lips tightened, his jaw setting in that familiar way. But he didn't look angry. He just looked... weary.

"It's complicated, Charlotte," he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words. "There's a lot of stuff I haven't figured out yet. And I don't want to drag you into it."

I shook my head, stepping closer. "You don't have to tell me everything, but you don't have to carry it alone either. You don't have to keep shutting me out."

For the first time in a long time, Patrick's gaze softened. His eyes met mine, and I saw something flicker there-something vulnerable, something real.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion.

My heart skipped a beat, and I felt the weight of his words sink deep into me. It was the first time he had ever said something like that, and I could see in his eyes that he meant it.

I took a small step forward, my voice quieter now. "Then don't push me away. I want to be here for you."

There was a long silence between us, thick with all the things we hadn't said. Then, slowly, Patrick nodded, the tension in his body seeming to ease ever so slightly.

"Okay," he said softly, the word a promise of something more.

---

Over the following weeks, things started to change between us. Slowly, but steadily, the walls Patrick had built around himself began to come down. He wasn't completely open with me, but he started letting me in more. He would talk to me about his day, even about the things that had been bothering him, though not everything. It was progress, and it was enough for now.

And as for me? I found myself growing closer to him in ways I hadn't anticipated. I still didn't fully understand what was happening between us, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that we were there for each other, even if we didn't have all the answers yet.

One afternoon, as the weather turned warm, Patrick and I sat outside on the porch, talking about nothing in particular. The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over everything.

"This is nice," I said quietly, watching the colors of the sky shift as the sun set. "It feels... peaceful."

Patrick glanced over at me, his gaze soft. "Yeah. It does."

'Maybe it was the quiet of the moment. Or maybe it was the fact that we were finally starting to understand each other, piece by piece.

But whatever it was, I knew one thing: things weren't perfect, but they were getting better. And for now, that was enough.

The days were long, and the tension between Patrick and me began to grow, but this time it wasn't a tension born of animosity or awkwardness. It was the kind of tension that came from understanding each other on a deeper level. Patrick had opened up a little more about what he was going through-enough to make me realize that his struggles were far more complicated than I could have ever imagined.

It wasn't just about our new living situation, about him adjusting to the presence of his father's new wife and me in his life. Patrick was dealing with a deeper pain, one that had been simmering beneath the surface for years. It was as if there was a storm inside of him, one that no one had ever seen before, and I was now caught in the middle of it.

I wanted to help him, but I didn't know how.

Patrick had been quieter than usual, slipping in and out of the house, often disappearing for long stretches of time, sometimes with no explanation. He'd started spending more time in his room or wandering the property, often retreating to the backyard or the woods that bordered our home. Sometimes, when I tried to approach him, he would shrug it off or give me a half-hearted excuse about needing space. I didn't push him too hard, knowing that whatever he was going through, he wasn't ready to share it with anyone.

But that didn't stop me from worrying. I saw the way his posture stiffened when someone mentioned his father, the way his eyes darkened when he thought no one was watching. Patrick was holding something inside, something heavy, something dark. And as much as I wanted to help him, I didn't know where to begin.

It wasn't until one evening, a few days after our conversation on the porch, that I finally saw the crack in the armor Patrick had built around himself. It happened late at night, when the house was quiet, and the only sounds were the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

I had just finished my homework and was heading to the kitchen for a late-night snack when I noticed the light in Patrick's room still on. He wasn't one to stay up late unless something was bothering him. My curiosity got the better of me, and I quietly walked down the hallway to his door, pausing just outside it.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help myself.

At first, there was nothing. But then, I heard it: a low, guttural sound. A frustrated sigh. A soft thud. Patrick was clearly agitated, pacing, or maybe even throwing things. I was about to turn away and leave him to his private moment when I heard his voice, rough and strained, calling out.

"Why do you always do this to me?" he muttered, his words barely audible through the door. "Why can't you just... let me go?"

The words were full of so much emotion-hurt, anger, desperation-that I felt my chest tighten. Who was he talking to? His father? Someone else?

I lingered by the door, torn between wanting to give him the space he clearly needed and the urge to go inside and comfort him. The thought of leaving him alone in this turmoil didn't sit right with me, so I gently knocked on the door.

There was a moment of silence before Patrick's voice came, hoarse and uncertain. "Go away."

I could hear the vulnerability in his tone, and it made me hesitate, my hand still resting on the doorframe. But I wasn't going to just walk away.

"Patrick," I said softly, my voice steady. "I'm here. You don't have to be alone right now. You don't have to shut me out."

There was a long pause, and I thought for a moment he wouldn't respond at all. But then, finally, the door clicked open, and I stepped inside.

Patrick was sitting at the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his head hanging low. His hair was disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, and his hands were clenched into fists on his thighs. He looked up as I entered, his eyes red-rimmed and weary.

"What do you want, Charlotte?" he asked, his voice rough, but there was no anger behind it-just exhaustion.

"I want to help you," I replied quietly, stepping closer. "I don't know what you're going through, but I can't just stand by and pretend everything's fine when I know it's not."

Patrick shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You don't get it. It's not something I can just talk about."

"Why not?" I asked, my voice gentle but firm. "I'm your step-sister. I'm here for you, whether you like it or not. You don't have to go through this alone."

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes shifting away from mine. "It's not that simple. It's... complicated. You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," I said, sitting down next to him on the bed. My heart was racing, and I could feel the weight of his words pressing against me, but I refused to back down. He needed to know that I was here, truly here for him, no matter what.

There was a long silence, during which Patrick didn't speak. The storm outside had picked up again, its rain battering against the windows, but it only made the room feel quieter, more intimate. The tension between us was palpable, and I could see the internal struggle in Patrick's eyes.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Have you ever felt like you're carrying a weight that's too heavy for you to bear? Like no matter how hard you try, you just can't escape it?"

I nodded slowly, my gaze never leaving his. "Yes. I've felt that way. But that's why we need people around us. To help us carry that weight."

Patrick's lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "You think that helps? People don't fix things. They just... make them messier."

"I don't believe that," I said firmly, taking his hand in mine. "I think people make things better, even if it's just by being there. You don't have to fix everything, Patrick. But I can help you carry it."

For a moment, Patrick looked at me as if weighing my words, his eyes filled with uncertainty. Then, slowly, he squeezed my hand and let out a breath, the tension in his body easing just a little.

"You're right," he said quietly. "Maybe I've been trying to fix things on my own for too long."

I saw a flicker of hope in his eyes-something that had been missing for a long time. It wasn't a solution, and it wasn't the end of his struggle. But it was a beginning.

"Whatever you're going through, I'm here for you," I said softly, squeezing his hand again. "And if you ever want to talk about it... or not talk about it, I'll be here. Always."

Patrick didn't say anything right away, but after a long moment, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. It was the closest thing to acceptance I had gotten from him in weeks, and it was enough to give me hope.

"Thanks," he muttered quietly, almost as though he hadn't meant to say it. But I heard the sincerity in his voice, and it made my heart swell.

We sat together in silence for a long time, the storm outside continuing to rage. But inside, there was a fragile peace. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't easy, but it was real. And maybe, just maybe, that was all we needed.

---

As the days passed, things began to change between us. Patrick became more present, more grounded in the reality of our shared space. He started talking to me more, opening up about the small things-the things that didn't feel so heavy. And though the deeper issues were still there, we began to rebuild the connection we had once shared. It wasn't a straight path, but it was a start.

I had no idea what the future held for us-whether this fragile bond we were building would survive the trials we would inevitably face. But for now, I was content with where we were... And maybe that was enough for both of us.

---