Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights hurt Shane’s eyes as he was pushed down the hospital hallway. Each one that passed overhead made his head pound harder. He scrunched his face in discomfort and let out a low moan.
He heard a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize. It sounded distant but she could’ve been right there. His ears were ringing.
“It’s alright, Mr. Hollander. We’ll have you in a room in just a few minutes and get you taken care of.”
“Just tell him not to worry.” Shane mumbled out loud.
Then Shane passed out again.
He woke sometime later, momentarily confused by his surroundings. The heavy blankets pressed against his body. He felt naked. Not initially feeling the lose material of the hospital gown.
“It’s okay, Shane. You’re in the hospital.” He knew that voice. His mom. “You took a hard hit on the ice.” Yuna put her hand on his cheek.
Shane tried to pull himself up in the bed, but pain shot through his shoulder. His chest started heaving as panic rushed in. What happened. How bad was it.
“Shane, relax. Relax sweety. You’re okay. Don’t work yourself up. We’re here, and you’re okay.”
His breathing slowly began to ease. “What happened?” He could feel the soreness of his shoulder. Not enough to be serious. Nothing was broken.
Yuna sighed. Her eyes looked puffy as though she’d been crying. Shane glanced at his dad on his other side, who had a hand resting on his thigh. Slowly tapping like you would a baby’s back to soothe them. Then looking around the room as if expecting someone else. No one was there.
“You got hit hard, Shane. You were coming down the ice fast and, I don’t know, you must not have seen Marleau, but he caught you. Your head hit the ice, and you were unconscious. The medics brought you here as a precaution,” David said.
“How long have I been here?” Shane asked, reaching for his shoulder to gauge the pain.
“A few hours now. They did a CT scan and X-rays. It’s just a minor concussion. You came down hard on your shoulder, but nothing’s broken. You’re just going to have bruising and pain.”
“Yeah,” Shane muttered. “I can feel it.” His eyes tightened as he slowly rotated his shoulder.
“Go get the nurse. He probably needs more medication at this point,” Yuna said to David. Then, softer, to Shane: “Rest, honey.”
“Did we win?”
“See, Yuna? He’s back to himself already. He’ll be fine. I’ll go let the nurse know he’s awake, but he’s in pain.” David got up to leave the room.
A few moments later, a young nurse came in, pushing a rolling cart stocked with medications and supplies. Not long after she injected something into his IV, Shane’s eyelids went heavy.
He was asleep within seconds.
Even heavy medication couldn’t reset Shane’s internal clock. Years of discipline had made sure of that. Shane’s life ran on routine: the food he ate, the hours he trained, the time he woke, the time he slept. Everything had its place. Everything was controlled. Balanced. Almost nothing could throw him off.
So, he was awake at five a.m., just like always.
He grabbed his phone. He shouldn’t be looking at screens, but he wouldn’t be on it long. Text and calls from other players and coaches checking in on him. Shane only responded to one, Hayden.
Hayden: Hey man, we heard it’s just a concussion. It was a hell of a fall. Had everyone pretty nervous there for a moment.
Shane: Thanks Hayden. Up and feeling better. Sore still but I’ll be fine.
Shane knew Hayden wouldn’t see this for another few hours. He roomed with Hayden to long on away games to know he wouldn’t be up until necessary. Away games were mini-vacation for Hayden to get away from all his kids. He loved them, Shane knew, but still sleep was a rarity for Hayden.
He opened Twitter. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about. What landed him in the hospital. Shane Hollander Gets Knocked Out in Boston was a trending topic. Shane noticed another trending topic Rozanov Reaction to Hollander Knockout. Shane clicked the second one.
The video started with Shane skating across the rink. And, then out of nowhere, bam! Marleau was there. Shane was on the ground. His head hit hard. Followed by his shoulder taking over the deadweight. And then it happened. Ilya Rozanov was already on the ice when it happened and skated quickly over. The look on his face was nothing but deep concern. He was talking. Perhaps even shouting, but Shane couldn’t make out what he was saying. Ilya remained like that until a ref pushed him back to the bench.
“You hate to see that. Look, Ilya Rozanov is… concerned. To say the least. Even his biggest rival is locked in on Hollander right now,” the announcer on the video said. “Rozanov is really not trying to leave here, and he looks like he’s saying something. He’s usually emotional, but this seems different.”
“You can tell, Tom, Rozanov loves the game. Loves the competition,” the other announcer said. “No one wants to see a player go down like that. And if something serious happened to Hollander, that’s one of the biggest rivalries in the league taking a hit. Rozanov looks genuinely upset.”
The video ends.
Shane smiling. I was hurt. It could’ve been bad. Ilya didn’t know how serious. He cared.
He clicked on the @IlyaRozanovOffical that was tagged in the video. 13 million followers. 1 post back from 4 years ago that simply said: This was not my idea. This man. This asshole of a man, Shane thought, was adored.
Shane had 3 million followers, which for a professional hockey player was still a lot of people, but Yuna made sure the posts were consistent; updated hockey news, sharing highlight reels, pictures of Montreal and the Voyageurs gear, basically anything hockey that Shane could be connected with.
Ilya liked to tease Shane about who had more. Shane didn’t mind, he knew Ilya didn’t care about such things.
Another thought entered Shane’s mind as he closed the app. One that made his body feel numb. What if something more serious happened? He didn’t want to focus on it anymore. Shane couldn’t help but admit that he felt different. He was still Shane of course. That would never change, but he felt… aware. Awaken.
His shoulder still hurt, a deep, pulsing ache every time he moved, but at least his head no longer felt like it was splitting open. He guessed they’d send him home later that day.
His parents came by right when visitor hours started. Shane knew they would.
Shane loved them fiercely. They had given him everything. Since he was little, they had spent endless hours in cold rinks and training facilities, poured time and money and energy into the thing he loved most, until hockey had become not just a dream but his whole life.
Almost his whole life.
Because there was something he still had not found the courage to tell them.
Not because he thought they would stop loving him. Deep down, Shane knew they wouldn’t. It wasn’t them he was afraid of. It was himself. The words. Making them real. Letting them exist outside his own head.
Years ago, even thinking about it had made him nauseous. He had trained himself not to think about it at all. But recently, that started to change. He said it first to himself, then aloud to one other person. Then one more person. The second person he told mattered most.
He was gay.
That fact didn’t scare Shane the way it once had. Not anymore. The frightening part wasn’t being gay. It was being gay as a professional NHL player. As captain of the team that had drafted him. As someone whose life had always been built on discipline, control, and perfection.
For so long, Shane had treated this part of himself like a flaw.
But it didn’t feel like a flaw anymore. It felt normal. More than that, it felt like the answer to so many things he had never been able to explain old mistakes, old confusion, old shame. He saw himself differently now. The world, too. He kept his strict diet, his training schedule, his distance from most social events. But he was happier. Lighter. More present. For maybe the first time in his life, Shane walked with his head up.
He wasn’t just gay.
He was in love.
In love with a man no one would ever guess. A man everyone would have something to say about if they knew. His rival since he was a teenager. The man who was currently trending on Twitter about Shane’s fall.
Ilya Rozanov.
Captain of the Boston Bears. The NHL’s beautiful menace. The one who had somehow become bigger than the sport itself, with more social media followers than anyone else in the league by an absurd margin. The one on fashion magazine covers. The one people made thirst edits of on TikTok. The one Shane had been in a secret relationship with for nearly a decade.
Waking up in the hospital, unsure what had happened or how serious it was, made one thing painfully clear: Ilya was who Shane wanted there more than anyone. He didn’t even care who saw. Lying in that bed, Shane understood there had to be more to life than hockey and discipline.
Bare feet paced across the hard floor of Ilya’s home kitchen. He had been pacing for hours, staring at his phone. Waiting for a text. A call. Anything.
He knew Shane wasn’t badly hurt. The Montreal Voyageurs had posted on Twitter the night before: @ShaneHollanderOfficial UPDATE: We can confirm that Shane is not seriously injured. He is suffering from a minor concussion, and he expects to be back on the ice as soon as he’s fully recovered and cleared. #voyageurstrong #thatsmycap
The relief from that news had only lasted a moment after Ilya first read it.
The scene from the night before kept replaying in Ilya’s head over and over. The sound of the hit. The crack of Shane’s head against the ice. Every time he thought about it, Ilya’s stomach twisted. His palms were slick with sweat. He wore nothing but sweatpants, and heat clung to his skin.
Boston could be warm. Not like Russia.
But this wasn’t Boston’s fault. It was emotion. Sickness. Frustration. Guilt.
Yes. Guilt.
Ilya braced himself against the kitchen island, leaning back against it as he stared out into his home without really seeing any of it. His mind refused to register what his eyes were looking at. There was only the guilt.
Almost ten years had passed, and here Ilya was, alone at home while the person he cared about most was lying in a hospital bed in a strange city. Shane had his parents, of course. Ilya knew they had been at the game. Yuna Hollander was ensuring the doctors were giving her son the best care Boston had to offer. Ilya knew this.
The thought should have comforted him.
If Ilya could not be there when Shane woke, at least his parents were.
Still, the guilt stayed.
Because someone should have been there. Someone who loved Shane. Not like a parent’s love or a concerned teammate. Someone who could have put a hand on him and made him feel safe. Someone who could have told him everything was going to be fine. Eto ty dolzhen delat' eti veshchi
Ilya had not been that person last night. In fact, Ilya was never that person for Shane. Not really. The first time Shane told Ilya he was gay, Ilya joked about it.
Ilya didn’t care Shane was gay. Shane knew it. Ilya knew Shane was gay. He was happy Shane finally told him. Happy for Shane to opened up to him. The truth scared Ilya. It meant the more Shane explored and accepted himself, Shane would figure out that Ilya wasn’t the one who could make him happy.
Ilya also confined in Shane that night in Tampa Bay, things he didn’t like to talk about. The night ended with sex more passionate than ever. Before it they just held each other after entrusting their vulnerability with one another. It was the night Ilya knew he may never love another person like he loved Shane Hollander.
No, He had not been at the hospital when Shane woke up.
The sound of the helmet hitting the ice again.
The sound of Ilya bent over the kitchen trash can, retching. If he had anything in his stomach since before last night’s game, it would’ve been sure to come out. He had nothing to give.
This had to stop. It could not go on like this. Shane needed something Ilya was not giving him. Ilya knew what had to happen.
He would have to let Shane go. The thought was like a thousand knives stabbing all at once over his entire body.
I’ve already had so much loss. I never want Shane to feel this pain. Moya lyubov’.
If his own happiness had to be sacrificed for Shane’s, then so be it. He was Ilya Rozanov. The great Russian hockey player to the world. The one even people who knew nothing about hockey recognized. He would survive it. What mattered was that Shane could still have a life. A life he deserved. That Shane could still be happy. Shane was still young, and so pretty. Perfect. So perfect.
It would hurt them both. Ilya knew that.
It just would not be with him. The thought of Shane being hurt was unimaginable, but carrying this on forever to do it later would be worse.
Ilya needed to see Shane one last time off the ice. He needed to be reminded of what he had was real. To look upon those freckles, into those dark eyes, and know what he had at one time was real, and not while on the opposing side of the rink.
Ilya looked at his phone later in the morning now. Perhaps his parents left by now. Perhaps its safe to go. He couldn’t wait any longer. Ilya needed to see him.
Like everyone, Ilya hated hospitals. The way it made him feel walking by patients’ rooms with no visitors. He’s been to this hospital many times. He led the NHL in Make-a-Wish foundation visits, and Boston was where most request came from.
Today there was a different reason not to like hospitals. To be in the hospital.
He wasn’t even paying attention to the surroundings. He was focused on getting to the room number the receptionist gave him. He knew Shane would be in a private room. Normally a room a receptionist wouldn’t have given any information on, but when she looked at Ilya, she knew the man. Not from hockey, he was sure, perhaps from one of the magazines covers or articles or even the videos “fans” created. Either way, his fame got him what he wanted this time.
“Ilya” Shane said giddily, looking up as Ilya opened the hospital room door.
Ilya’s heart beat quickened. The urge to run over to Shane, grab him, and tell him how scared he made Ilya last night. But he didn’t.
“Hollander” Smiling weakly at him. “You are good? You are OK?”
Shane outstretched his hand towards Ilya. Ilya smirked with his side smile. This was not like Shane. Not here out in the open anyway.
Ilya couldn’t recall stepping to Shane’s bed from the doorway. Perhaps he floated there, but there he was holding Shane’s hand. Looking down on him as he stood next to the bed. Wanting so badly to be in bed with him. Ilya’s eyes darting across Shane as though he couldn’t trust the news he was truly fine.
His eyes finally lay on Shane’s face. His eyes were glossier than Ilya ever saw before. The freckles though. Those precious freckles. They looked pretty as ever.
“Yes. Yeah. I-I’m fine. I’m great. Just a little sore but not more than I was this morning.” Shane said smiling, looking up to Ilya’s face. Their eyes met and held a pause.
“I think you would be, yes. You’re strong. Not like me, but it seems pain killers are doing good job.”
“Fuck off, Ilya”.
Ilya never saw Shane like this. He didn’t really drink and definitely did not do drugs. Ilya was intrigued and his heart tugged when he wanted nothing more than to mess with Shane in this state. Even take videos to tease him about later.
No, Ilya thought, that wouldn’t happen. It can’t.
“You came. You came to see me.”
“Mmm. Yes. Of course. You had me scared Hollander. I was so scared last night. The sound. It was s-so loud and then you go. They take you away.” His voice was harsher than usual. Accent thicker.
“I saw the video of you after it happened.” Shane’s lips were flickering. Like he wanted to smile so wide but held back. Their hands still holding on to one another. The grip tightened.
Don’t do this, Ilya. Ilya thought. Don’t make this harder. He stayed quiet.
“I’m glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.” Shane’s head slumped back against his pillow. The effects of the medications must be peaking.
“I wanted to make sure you were good.”
“You didn’t see the updates?”
“Da, of course I see updates Hollander. My phone does nothing but send me updates. Like all it knows to do. It’s annoying. But you can’t trust everything you read online, so had to be sure myself.”
“This isn’t how I wanted to spend my night in Boston.” Shane started. His thumb was now rubbing the inside of Ilya’s hand he was holding. “I’ve been thinking. I wanted-I want to talk to you about—”
“Not here, Hollander. Not now.”
“Yes. No. No, I mean yes now.”
“Hollander...” Ilya’s shoulders tightened.
A small knock on the door, and it began to open. Ilya removed his hand from Shane’s as a man holding a tray of food appeared. It wasn’t a swift jerk away. Subtle. Not to draw attention to the eye of where his hand once was.
“Mr. Hollander. We got lunch for you.” The man said as a nurse entered the room behind the man to check on Shane. The man’s eyes widened as he looked over at Ilya.
“Ilya Rozanov” The man said out loud barely paying attention to where he was placing Shane’s tray “I’m a huge fan. Huge.”
“Ah, see Hollander. I told you before, yes? This is my city. They love me here.” Ilya said hoping the joke would take away the why was he here the man who delivered the food had yet to think about.
“Yes sir.” A moment of silence. “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have but—wow—Ilya Rozanov standing right in front of me.” The man left the room still in disbelief but not before taking one final look at Ilya before doing so. The nurse was still checking on Shane.
“Your vitals are good Mr. Hollander. Everything is good. We’ll reassess after the pain medicine starts to wear off, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t be leaving later today. How are you feeling?”
“Good. I’m good right now. Right here.”
Ilya looked from the nurse to Shane. Shane was still looking at Ilya smiling.
“I’m sure he’ll be doing much better once he eats hospital lunch. It’s not much different than food he eats at home. Bland. No taste.” Ilya said raising the corner of his lips. And other than not knowing where the hospital food came from, Ilya’s statement wasn’t far from the truth.
“Well, that’s good. Eat up. Put something in your stomach. I’ll come by in a little while longer and we’ll go from there.” She left the room making notes on her notepad.
A silence hung. Ilya hoped the pain medicine would make Shane forget what they were talking about before the distraction of his lunch.
“I got to get going soon. I have afternoon practice before tomorrow morning’s game.”
“Oh. Yea. Yea I get it.” The smile vanished from Shane’s face. “Practice is important.”
Ilya’s eyes searched the room like he was looking for something he brought that he may have forgotten to take. He was just prolonging the departure. A few more moments. It may be all he has forever.
“Ilya…” Shane takes Ilya’s hand.
“Yes, Hollander.”
Shane’s smiling again. “Will you – will you come to my cottage with me this summer? Don’t go to Russia.”
Ilya face was emotionless. His eyes examining Shane’s face again. Why did Shane have to make this so hard. Ilya knew this wasn’t easy for Shane to ask. He was sure the medication helped with Shane’s courage. Just say NO, Ilya. Say no. Tell Shane to go find someone who will make him happy. Happier than you can ever make him, and leave.
“Maybe.”
Ilya hated himself for a moment. Too weak to tell Shane no. But the next moment made Ilya feel like he wanted to jump out the window of the hospital.
Shane pulled his hand away. His eyes looked at Ilya like he never looked at him before, and Ilya wishes would never look at him again. Like Shane didn’t know the person who was standing in front of him. And if he did know him, the look told him he was disgusted. Shane was hurt. Ilya could clearly see that. Ilya’s insides burned. He wanted to tell Shane: Yes. I’ll go to your cottage. We could live there forever. We would never have to leave. We can do any boring thing you want to do, and you know what? I’d love it because I’m so madly in love with you. I would die before making you unhappy. Ilya knew he couldn’t promise that to Shane. Being with Ilya meant Shane had to sacrifice too much. Ilya couldn’t allow it.
”You should go. You’ll be late for practice.”
“Hollander…” Ilya said desperately.
“I’d like you to go Rozanov. Please.”
Ilya tapped his hand on the arm of the hospital bed. Once at the door, he turned back once more to look at Shane. Shane wasn’t looking back though. He was looking down at his own lap. His eyes were wet.
This was the hard, but necessary part. Ilay thought as he walked out the door.
Shane stared at the untouched food on his kitchen counter.
Normally, Shane wouldn’t have thought twice about a meal like this. It had all the micronutrients he made sure to eat every day for the past few years, especially during the season. He made it without even thinking. Out of routine. Out of habit. But now he had no desire for it. No appetite. After standing there for a few more minutes, he threw it away without taking a bite.
It had been twenty-four hours since Shane arrived back home in Montreal.
Shane sat on the barstool in his kitchen. His phone was only an arm’s length away.
Maybe.
He had thought of that word a lot over the past day. Maybe. He knew the truth now. Maybe really meant no. Or worse, maybe it meant not enough.
Shane had always felt different. Younger Shane never felt like he fit in. Older Shane only felt like he fit in because he was good at hockey. Really good. But being really good at something doesn’t make you feel normal. It just gives people a reason not to look too closely anywhere else.
And now Shane felt worse than he ever had before. Hollow. Like a shell of a person.
Even his strict schedule, and now his strict diet, weren’t being followed the way they had been so religiously since he started playing hockey professionally.
He couldn’t eat.
He couldn’t sleep.
He couldn’t stop hearing that one word in Ilya’s voice.
Maybe.
Shane felt ill. Physically ill. It wasn’t from the collision and the fall. This was something no doctor could give him medicine for.
By the time Shane looked at the clock again, the apartment had gone dark around him. He hadn’t turned on a single light. He hadn’t moved much at all.
He lifted a hand to his face and only then realized it was wet. His pants had droplets on them. He had been crying long enough for it to soak through.
His phone beeped.
As quickly as Shane had moved in two days, he spun around and grabbed for it.
It was just his mom checking to see how he was feeling.
Yuna still didn’t know why Shane had been crying when she came back to the hospital room in Boston before Shane was discharged. She wouldn’t understand, Shane thought. Or maybe she would, but not in the way that mattered. He lied to her again and said the fall had just shaken him up.
He responded and let her know he was fine and to stop worrying.
Had it been anyone else, Shane probably wouldn’t have responded at all. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He would’ve responded for him.
Shane went to bed because there wasn’t anything else to do, not because he thought sleep would come. If he slept at all, it was meaningless. He woke the next morning not feeling one bit like himself.
Usually, Shane started his day with yoga, followed by lifting or heavy cardio, then breakfast, team practice or team meetings, checking emails, lunch, reading to reset his mind, followed by another workout of some sort, an early light dinner, then bed. Every day was basically the same, give or take. Structured. Balanced. Controlled.
Shane was off for at least the next week. His coach wanted him focused on one thing only: recovery.
“The earlier we get you back, the better chance we have at the Cup this year.”
Shane couldn’t even remember if he responded. Maybe a grunt. Maybe a sure thing, coach. He didn’t know. What did it even matter right now?
He gave up on yoga after fifteen minutes. He didn’t have the energy from the lack of sleep and from being so drained by the past two days. Lifting and cardio weren’t even a question.
Breakfast didn’t sound appetizing.
By nine a.m., Shane was back in bed.
A few hours later, he forced himself up again and decided maybe a shower would help. He stood under the water and let it rinse over him. Shane couldn’t have said for how long. The warmth soothed him some, but not enough.
What’s happening to you, Shane? What did you think the outcome would be?
After the shower, Shane made a protein shake. He knew he needed something in him. Some nutrients. Something. He sat back on the couch and took a swig while opening his phone.
Maybe he could doom-scroll for a little while and numb out.
Normally he wouldn’t do this. He wasn’t even supposed to be on his phone with the concussion, but Shane also normally would’ve done a lot of other things by this point in the day, and he hadn’t done any of them. This wasn’t really a trade-off. He just needed something to distract himself. To get out of his own head. Shane had a tendency, amplified by wanting to be perfect, to overanalyze until he made himself panic.
He clicked on Twitter. The first post. The very first post.
Ilya Rozanov.
It was a photo from a recent shoot Ilya had done for an endorsement deal. Shane knew the campaign immediately because Ilya had told him all about it. Not bragging. Never bragging. Ilya hated this side of the job. He called it boring, called it stupid, called it a waste of time.
Shane could hear him perfectly. “Hollander, it is boring shoot. You would love it. Plus, you’d get to see me all dressed up. Or maybe half naked.”
Maybe.
Shane shut off his phone.
That wasn’t going to help.
It had been almost two days since maybe. Two days since Shane sent Ilya away. Three days since Shane woke up in a hospital bed scared and confused and wanting one person more than anyone else.
There had been no texts. No calls. Nothing.
Shane, he isn’t your boyfriend.
The thought landed hard.
Not because it wasn’t true.
Because it was.
Shane didn’t remember when it happened, but suddenly he was folded over his knees, curled into himself like he was trying to disappear. His breathing turned hard and uneven in the silence of the apartment.
Shane, this isn’t you. Take control. Do something about it.
He was back on his phone. This time he had Notes open. He stared at the blank page, waiting for the words to come to him.
Ilya,
It was a start. He knew what needed to be said. He couldn’t find it in himself to do it. Not yet.
Shane had never been good at expressing his emotions. Perhaps if he was, he wouldn’t have been in this situation. Perhaps he would’ve told Ilya years ago that he loved him. He would’ve been honest. Worst of all, he thought, perhaps this never would’ve begun at all.
Just thinking about it made Shane’s legs start to shake.
He closed the app.
Shane read a book. More like he looked at pages and turned them when the time felt right. He couldn’t have told you anything that was happening. It allowed some time to pass.
He felt his stomach gurgle as he lay on the couch. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he needed to eat something. A piece of grilled chicken and a cup of steamed vegetables would have to do. Every bite was its own battle to get down.
He slumped onto his bed. He needed rest. His body was telling him to rest. In the silence and darkness of his bedroom, it dawned on Shane that this was the first day since he could remember, as a hockey player, that he hadn’t once thought about hockey. He wasn’t thinking about how to be better.
This needed to change. Hockey was the one place Shane Hollander felt like himself. Where he could be himself. Well, not entirely true. There was another place, more like a who, where Shane could be himself. If he couldn’t have him, though, he needed to move on. If being in the hospital had any impact on Shane, it was that anything could happen at any time.
Shane grabbed his phone again and opened Notes.
Ilya,
He thought for a while, then began typing.
After two hours, Shane closed the phone. It was late in Montreal, meaning it was later in Boston. He’d send it tomorrow.
He didn’t sleep well, but when Shane awoke he had a pit in his stomach. Sometimes the convictions of late-night thoughts don’t always align come morning.
This needs to be done. You deserve to be happy. The beginning won’t be easy, but there’s always an end.
After forcing himself through some of his morning routine, Shane found himself re-reading the message one final time before copying it and sending it.
Ilya,
I have started this more times than I can count, and every version feels wrong. Too harsh, or not honest enough. Too emotional, or so careful, it says nothing at all. So, I’m going to stop trying to make it sound better than it is.
I love you.
You know that. I think you have for a long time. Maybe longer than I let myself admit it.
This would be easier if I could tell myself I am writing because I do not believe you love me too, but that would be a lie. I do believe you love me. I know you do. I know it in all the ways that matter, and maybe even once, you told me in words I could not understand. My heart tells me you did.
That is part of what makes this so hard. I have never really doubted your love. I have only doubted what your love is able to become.
When I woke up in the hospital, I did not know where I was at first. I did not know how badly I was hurt. I did not know if it was serious, if something was broken, if something had changed that could not be fixed. It was frightening in a way I cannot explain properly now that I am fine.
And in that moment, before I knew anything else, you were the person I wanted. The only thing I could think about.
Not hockey. Not the game. Not my image. Not any of the things I usually hide inside. You.
That should have told me everything.
Waking up like that made something painfully clear to me. My life cannot keep being divided into what matters and what is allowed. I cannot keep pretending the truest thing in it is something I am willing to accept only in secret, only in pieces, only when it is convenient or safe enough to exist.
And then you said “maybe”.
I need you to understand what that meant to me, even if you did not intend it the way I heard it.
Maybe did not sound like hope. It did not sound careful. It did not sound like someday.
It sounded like no, softened so I would survive hearing it.
It sounded like I was asking for too much.
Like what I wanted from you was impossible enough that you could not even bear to refuse me cleanly.
Like even after everything, the countless nights, the endless texting, our shared secrets, even after me waking up in a hospital bed wanting only you, you still could not choose me in any real way.
Maybe was worse than no, I think.
No would have hurt, but it would at least have been honest. Maybe left the door open just enough to make me stand there looking through it, knowing I was never really being invited inside.
And I cannot live like that anymore.
I cannot keep building my life around almost. Around hidden and later and not here and not now and maybe.
I have done that for years because it was you, and because some part of me believed that loving you meant accepting whatever pieces of you I could have and being grateful for them. I told myself it was enough because I understood why it had to be. I told myself wanting more was selfish.
I do not believe that anymore.
I do not think wanting daylight is selfish.
I do not think wanting a life is selfish.
I do not think wanting to be loved somewhere other than the dark is selfish.
And I do understand you. That is the worst part. I understand what this costs you in a way most people never could. I know this is not just about hockey for you. It is home, Russia. Family. Language. History. It is everything that made you before I ever knew you. I have never been blind to that. I have never thought any of this was simple.
But understanding you has turned into excusing a life that is hurting me.
And I cannot do that anymore.
This is not me saying you do not love me enough.
It is me saying love is not enough if it can only exist like this.
I know who you are to me.
I know what we are when no one is looking.
I know what you have given me.
I know, too, what you haven’t.
And I cannot keep living between those two things.
If I thought you felt nothing, this would be easier. I could hate you. I could call you a coward and turn all of this into anger. But I know better than that. I know you are not cruel. I know you are afraid. I know what fear can do to a person.
I also know what it has done to me.
I am tired, Ilya.
Tired of secrecy.
Tired of making peace with pain just because I know why it exists.
Tired of telling myself that maybe means enough.
It doesn’t. I can’t survive on maybe.
I want more than this. I want honesty. I want a life that feels lived instead of hidden. I want to stop treating the most important thing in my life like it only gets to exist in shadows.
That is not your fault. But I cannot keep making it my future.
So I am ending this.
Not because I do not love you. Because I do.
And because I think if I stay, I will keep letting that love ask me to live on less than I really want, until one day I do not recognize myself anymore.
I do not want to become bitter with you.
I do not want to resent you for what you cannot give.
I do not want to keep standing in front of a half-open door, waiting for a life you can’t choose.
I love you. I think I always will.
But I cannot keep living on what almost is.
— Shane
Shane didn’t know how long he stared at the phone after hitting send. He knew he held it long enough that his hand felt numb. The three bubbles Shane was secretly waiting for never came.
The only thing that came was his tears.