He looks down, a piece of tawny hair falling over his eyes, and I wonder if he’s thinking what others have said before him. They were just kids; what did they really know? I’m sure he’ll find someone else. Who’s to say they would have worked out anyway had she lived?

It’s bullshit. All of it. And it’s nothing I haven’t heard before as I tried to protect Mason from assholes who didn’t know any better.

Whoever decided there’s some arbitrary age constraint on finding your damn soulmate is clearly just as much of a dumbass as whoever decided that the weight of death couldn’t be measured. Because they’ve clearly never had to witness their best friend fade to nothing more than skin and bones, hoarse sobs and bloody knuckles.

They’ve never had to shove the guy they considered a brother into a cold shower. Fingers down his throat, and taps against his face, and bone-jarring shivers under unqualified hands.

Those people clearly don’t know what it means to be the only one left standing when the world around you crumbles.

“I found my ex hanging from a belt last winter.”

My eyes widen as my head snaps up.

“I don’t know if ex is the right term...” he goes on to say, a frown burrowing in deep between his eyes. Eyes normally so blue, that now appear duller, almost lifeless, as they wander aimlessly over the horizon. “But it’s not like I can still call him my boyfriend when he’s dead.”

This time, it’s me whispering his name.

He forces a laugh as he turns to face me, and the awful, broken sound of it reaches in and resonates with some deep, uncharted part of me. “How fucked is that?”

Eyes burning, I shake my head. “Really, really fucked.”

His eyes well up as a smile that is anything but happy lifts his cheeks. “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this—you, of all people. Especially after what you just told me.”

I ignore his first comment and scoff. “Probably because I’m a heartless asshole who brought you to a place notorious for its suicide rate.”

A beat passes. “Well, there is that.”

I rub a hand across the back of my neck.

“I don’t mean to make it about me,” he says after a moment. “I’m just telling you...well, I guess I’m telling you because I want you to know I get it, okay? The whole”—he waves a hand—“not being able to move on thing. Move forward. Like you’re—”

“Stuck.”

Nodding, he says, “Yeah. Exactly.”

I swallow. “And the harder you try to catch up, the more it pulls you down. Like fighting quicksand. Hopeless.”