Held, Then Released

Mara didn’t realize how tired she was until she stopped moving. She stood at the top of the ladder, paint roller heavy in her hand, staring at the unfinished stretch of siding in front of her. The color was meant to be calming, something between blue and gray, but up close it felt uncertain, like it hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. The sun pressed warm against the house, and for the first time all day, Mara felt the weight of everything she’d been carrying settle into her chest.

From below, Jonah called out, asking if she was alright or if she planned on turning into a statue. She managed a small laugh and told him she was just thinking. He teased her gently, reminding her that thinking was dangerous territory for her, especially considering past impulsive decisions she still pretended were intentional. She smiled despite herself and rolled the paint higher, grateful for the familiarity of his voice.

They worked in silence for a while, the kind that used to feel effortless but lately felt fragile. As the sun dipped lower and their shadows stretched across the lawn, Jonah casually asked if she planned on joining everyone downtown later that night. Mara felt the question before she answered it. She said she didn’t think so, her voice softer than she intended.

Jonah pointed out that she’d skipped the last few gatherings, then quickly added that she didn’t owe him an explanation. Still, he asked anyway. Mara leaned her forehead against the siding and admitted she just wasn’t there yet. When he gently asked if it was still about Evan, her chest tightened. She said it wasn’t him exactly, but the empty space he left behind. The version of him she loved had only existed when it was convenient, and knowing that didn’t make the loss hurt any less.

Jonah told her that moving on wasn’t something you flipped on like a switch, and that letting go wasn’t the same as pretending nothing happened. Mara tried to keep painting, but her hands felt heavier. She confessed that everyone kept telling her to move on as if it were simple, as if her heart hadn’t learned a different rhythm while loving someone who slowly stopped meeting her halfway.

As she reached higher to finish the edge, the ladder shifted beneath her. Her stomach dropped before her body did. The paint roller slipped from her grip and hit the ground below. Panic surged through her chest as she grabbed the edge of the roof, fingers burning as they struggled to hold on. She called Jonah’s name, fear cracking her voice.

He was already moving. He told her to listen, his voice steady even as her arms trembled. She admitted she couldn’t hold on much longer, tears blurring her vision. Jonah asked her if she trusted him. The question cut through the panic, demanding an answer she wasn’t sure she was ready to give. When he asked again, louder, she cried yes.

He told her to let go.

Every instinct screamed against it. Letting go felt like surrender, like failure, like everything she’d been fighting to avoid. But her hands were tired. Her heart was tired. She closed her eyes and released her grip.

The fall was brief and chaotic. Jonah caught her, the impact sending them both tumbling onto the grass. Air rushed from her lungs as the world spun and then slowly came to rest. For a moment, neither of them moved. When he asked if she was okay, she laughed through tears and said she was. She hadn’t expected trusting someone to feel so terrifying, or so relieving.

As she sat up, she looked back at the ladder still leaning against the house. The job wasn’t finished. Neither was she. But she realized something important in that quiet moment. Healing didn’t come from climbing higher or holding tighter. Sometimes, it came from trusting someone enough to catch you when you finally let go.