We sat there, for a long time I think, unmoving, three feet apart but unable to bridge the gap at all. I hated every second of that silence. I didn’t want to commiserate anymore, didn’t want to wallow in my own misery. It felt … well, not good, but like something to cry that hard, to let the emotion overtake me, violently pour itself out. An empty, anonymous forest now carries that splatter, but at least it’s not inside of me anymore. I let the monster roam free.

“Fucking forests…” Damien muttered finally.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice a shadow of what it had been when I’d last spoken.

“Just … I’ve never had a good time in one,” he said. “Only … turning points.”

I thought it was odd, that he wasn’t commenting on the breakdown I’d just had. He wasn’t trying to comfort me or check in with me, but he also wasn’t disgusted or afraid. He was just … there. I was appreciative of it in the moment, the lack of judgment, the lack of expectation that I would explain what I was feeling, but thinking back on it now … I don’t know. There’s not a wrong way to feel. But it’s like something in Damien broke a long time ago and he’s never been able to get his insides ticking again.

“What do you mean ‘turning points’?” I asked, relieved to be turning the conversation to him and his problems.

“You can’t go back, Rose. There’s a certain point where you just … you can’t ever go back. In the span of ten years, I’ve burned bridges on both coasts and now I—I have nowhere to go.”

“There’s a lot of country between Boston and LA, Damien.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess there is.”

A warm breeze moved through the trees, carrying the true smell of a summer night on it, humid and tangy. I closed my eyes and longed to be anywhere else. I could hear Damien’s shaky breathing next to me.

“This thing that you have,” he whispered, “it will swallow you whole if you let it. Trust me.”

I looked up at him to see tears rolling down his face.

“I won’t let it,” I said, not sure if I believed it. He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t sure if he believed it either.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?” I asked, surprised by how even and calm my voice was.

“Would you want to?” he asked. It wasn’t a dig or a passive-aggressive call for help, but one of those rare genuine questions. I decided it deserved a genuine answer.

“I don’t know.”

He nodded, like I’d just told him something eminently practical, and stood up.

“That’s good,” he said. “You’ll know eventually. It’ll wear off.”