He knelt, the cold ground pressing through the fabric of his trousers. For a long moment, he just looked. The silence of the cemetery pressed around him, not suffocating, but holding him. The city seemed far away, trivial and irrelevant. He felt the years of avoidance, the two years of fear and withdrawal, settling into the dirt beneath him.
Then, quietly, he began to speak. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the mist. "I… I miss you. Every day. I've been scared… scared of the world, scared of myself, scared of… everything. I didn't know how to live without you. I didn't know how to… be."
His words trembled, catching on the weight of grief that had never been fully released. He took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs. "I need… I need strength. Strength to live properly, to face life, to not be scared all the time. I… I want to try. I want to be able to be happy again. I… I want to let go, even if just a little. Please… help me be strong enough."
The quiet was absolute. Even the distant city noise was nothing here. Elliot closed his eyes, pressing a hand against the headstone. For the first time in years, he felt something shift inside him. A release, tiny and fragile, but real. He whispered their names one last time, letting the words fall into the mist, into the earth that held them.
Noah waited silently, hands in his pockets, giving Elliot the space he needed while ready to catch him if he faltered. When Elliot finally opened his eyes, there was a sheen of moisture there, not just tears, but a kind of clarity.
They stayed a few more minutes, Elliot straightening, feeling the ground beneath him, the cold in his hands, the faint smell of autumn leaves. Then Noah gently guided him back toward the path, walking beside him. No words were needed; the act of moving together, of stepping out and returning, spoke for itself.
The journey home was quieter than the trip out. Elliot's headphones remained on, but he didn't grip them as tightly. His steps were steadier. For the first time, he felt the possibility of life beyond the apartment. A life where he could breathe, and even stumble, and still find his way.
When they reached the building, Elliot paused at the threshold, a strange hesitation in the familiar doorway. He looked at Noah, who offered a small, reassuring smile.
"Today was huge, Elliot. Really huge. You did it."
Elliot nodded, voice almost lost in the hum of the city outside. "I… I did it," he said softly. And this time, he meant it.
Back in the apartment, the city's hum seemed distant, a soft undercurrent rather than an overwhelming tide. Elliot removed his headphones and set them carefully on the table, almost ceremoniously. The quiet of his apartment enveloped him, but it felt different now — less like a cage, more like a sanctuary.
Noah settled into the armchair, loosening his jacket, letting out a slow breath. He said nothing at first, giving Elliot space, knowing the day had been intense. Elliot noticed the ordinary scents grounding him in the simple reality of being alive.
For a long moment, he just stared at the notebook on the table. Today had shifted something inside him, though fragile, it was enough to reach for it. He slid the cover open, his fingers brushing the leather, feeling the familiar texture under his palms.
The pen in his hand trembled slightly. He wrote slowly at first, hesitant, searching for the words to match the flood of emotion inside him.
Today… I went outside. I went out. I went to their graves. I… I said goodbye properly. I asked for strength. I think… I feel… lighter? Not free, not yet, but… lighter.
He paused, pressing the pen tip against the paper, watching it hover over the blank space. The silence of the apartment pressed around him, not oppressive, but encouraging. A few lines of thought tumbled out, messy and fragmented, the words clumsy, but true.
I don't know how to be normal. I've never known how. I've always struggled… always had to figure things out differently. Being autistic made the world confusing, loud, painful sometimes. I learned to hide it, to adapt, to survive… but today, I let myself feel it. I let myself grieve, remember, and face it all. And I… I survived. I made it outside.
His hand ached from gripping the pen too tightly, but he wrote on. The words spilled over, more honest than anything he'd allowed himself to admit before.
I want to try… I want to live. I want to feel brave again, even if it's just a little. I want to be me, not someone hiding behind doors and routines. Please… help me keep this feeling. Help me keep moving forward.
When he finally set the pen down, the page was filled with jagged sentences, half-erased thoughts, and a raw, trembling honesty that left him feeling both exhausted and strangely calm. The apartment was still, except for the quiet hum of the radiator and the distant murmur of the city beyond the walls.
Noah watched him for a moment, careful not to intrude, then cleared his throat gently. "That looks… like a lot of progress," he said quietly. "I'm proud of you, Elliot. Really proud."
Elliot's fingers lingered on the edge of the notebook. He didn't meet Noah's eyes immediately. "I… I don't feel proud," he admitted softly. "I just… survived a day. That's all."
"No," Noah said, leaning forward slightly. "It's more than that. You faced something you've avoided for years. You went outside. You said goodbye to your parents. You let yourself feel. That's huge. That's real progress. And you did it without running, without hiding."
Elliot closed the notebook slowly, letting the leather cover click shut. It felt like closing a door on fear, even if only temporarily. "I guess… maybe it is," he whispered.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Noah made tea, and they ate simple sandwiches together, the normalcy of the act comforting. Elliot felt the tight coil of anxiety in his chest loosen, replaced by a quiet exhaustion that was almost peaceful. For the first time in months, the apartment didn't feel like a trap.
Before bed, Elliot returned to the window. The city lights twinkled below, reflections dancing in the glass. The sounds of the streets were faint now, distant and harmless. He pressed a hand against the cool glass, thinking of the graves, the words he had spoken, and the small yet monumental steps he had taken.
He picked up the notebook one last time, opening it to the page he had just written. He traced the words with his finger, a silent promise to himself. Not a promise to be perfect, not a promise to erase fear, but a promise to try, to keep moving forward, one small step at a time.
When he finally lay down, sleep came slowly, but it came, carrying with it the possibility that the world outside the apartment might one day feel less like a storm and more like a place he could inhabit.