Even After The Fire

Shattered Roses

The weeks after Sofia's death blurred into a haze of smoke and powder. Kieran barely noticed the passing of time. Days meant nothing; nights were just darker versions of his grief. He lived with one goal: to forget.

He stopped attending classes altogether. His professors sent warnings, but he didn't read them. His dorm mates knocked on his door, but he shouted until they left. The only company he allowed inside was the white powder and the emptiness that welcomed him with open arms.

Sometimes, he'd wake up on the floor, heart racing, sweat soaking his shirt, his nose bleeding. He'd stare at the ceiling, whispering Sofia's name over and over, as though repeating it could summon her back from the grave. But she never came.

One night, drunk and high, he stumbled to the rooftop where they had once sat under the stars. He leaned against the railing, staring down at the city lights, his mind a battlefield of voices.

Jump. End it. There's nothing left. She's gone, just like your parents.

But then another voice broke through-his mother's voice, faint but steady: Live, Kieran. Don't give up. Not yet.

He collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest as though he could hold his shattered heart together. He cried until dawn painted the sky, but nothing eased the ache.

When Rafael arrived, Kieran was too far gone to care. His uncle stormed into his dorm and found him curled on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles and torn packets. His once-sharp nephew was a ghost of himself-thin, pale, lifeless eyes sunken deep into his skull.

"Dios mío," Rafael muttered, his throat tight. He crouched beside Kieran, shaking him. "Look at you. You're destroying everything-your life, your future, your parents' legacy."

Kieran lifted his head slowly, his pupils wide, his lips trembling. "They're dead, Uncle. Sofia's dead. Why not me too?"

Rafael's chest clenched. For the first time, he saw not just a rebellious boy, but a broken young man on the edge of disappearing. "Because you're all that's left of them. And if you give up now, then they truly die with you."

Kieran laughed bitterly. "You think therapy can fix this? No one can fix me."

"Maybe not fix you," Rafael said firmly, "but heal you. And you need healing, Kieran. If you want your inheritance, if you want your future-you will go. No more arguments."

It wasn't a choice. Within days, Rafael had arranged it.

That's how Kieran found himself sitting stiffly in a quiet, warmly lit office across from a stranger. Shelves of books lined the walls, a soft lamp glowed on the desk, and the faint smell of coffee lingered in the air.

"Welcome, Kieran," the man said gently, his voice deep but calm. "I'm Dr. Adrian Morales. You can call me Adrian if you'd like."

Kieran crossed his arms, glaring. "I didn't come here by choice."

"Most people don't," Adrian replied with a faint smile. "But since you're here, maybe you could tell me what brought you."

Kieran snorted. "Drugs. Death. Take your pick."

Adrian didn't flinch. "Let's start with death, then. Who did you lose?"

The question pierced straight through him. He wanted to scoff, to shut down, to run-but something about Adrian's voice held him in place. It wasn't pitying. It wasn't judgmental. It was patient, steady, like a hand held out in the dark.

"My parents," Kieran muttered finally. "And... and Sofia." His throat tightened as he said her name.

Adrian leaned forward slightly. "Tell me about Sofia."

Kieran's jaw clenched. "She was... everything. The only reason I stopped drugs, bad company. She made me believe I could live again and be a better person. And now she's gone. So what's the point?"

For the first time, Adrian's eyes softened. "The point, Kieran, is that you're still here. And maybe that means your story isn't over yet, even if you don't believe."

Kieran laughed bitterly. "Easy for you to say."

But as the sessions continued, something unexpected began to happen. Adrian didn't press too hard, didn't demand answers Kieran wasn't ready to give. He asked questions instead-gentle but sharp, cutting through the fog in Kieran's mind.

"What do you feel when you think of her?"

"What do you fear when you see yourself in the mirror?"

"What would your parents want for you now?"

Slowly, painfully, Kieran began to talk. About the accident. About the drugs. About the hatred for girls that had once consumed him, the emptiness that had driven him. About Sofia's smile, her laughter, the way she had breathed light into his world.

Sometimes he shouted. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he sat in silence, unable to speak at all. But Adrian never rushed him.

For the first time, Kieran felt like someone saw him-not the addict, not the failure, not the burden, but the boy still clawing for air beneath the rubble of grief and he felt calm and relaxed.

Weeks turned into months. His hands shook less. His cravings dulled. His grades, slowly but surely, began to rise again. He was still broken, but the pieces weren't cutting him as deeply anymore.

But as the haze of drugs lifted, Kieran began to notice something else. Something dangerous. Something he didn't understand.

It wasn't just the therapy sessions that kept him coming back. It wasn't just the healing. It was Adrian.

The calm way his therapist spoke. The intensity in his dark eyes when he listened. The rare, small smile that broke through when Kieran made a joke. The way Adrian believed in him even when he didn't believe in himself.

Kieran hated himself for noticing. He tried to bury it, to ignore the way his chest tightened whenever Adrian leaned forward, the way his pulse raced when their eyes locked.

No, he told himself again and again. It's just gratitude. It's just respect. He's your therapist. Nothing more.

But late at night, when he closed his eyes, it wasn't Sofia's face he saw anymore. It was Adrian's.

And that terrified him more than any drug he has ever had.