The Shoulder to Cry On

My name is Grant. I work as a high school counselor in Seattle, so you’d think I’d be an expert at managing emotions—especially my own. But for the last five years, I’ve been failing the most important test of my life.

I’ve been in love with Elena since we were sophomores in college. She’s the kind of person who walks into a room and the energy just shifts. She’s brilliant, funny, and has this habit of biting her lip when she’s thinking hard that honestly makes me forget how to breathe. I’ve never told her. I’ve always been the "safe" friend, the one she calls when things are good, and unfortunately, the one she calls when things are falling apart.

Six months ago, she started dating Caleb. He’s a travel photographer—rugged, adventurous, and about as reliable as a weather forecast in a hurricane. I spent months listening to her gush about him. I even helped her pick out a vintage camera to give him for his birthday, spending my weekend scouring pawn shops because I knew it would make her happy to see him happy.

Last night, the phone rang at 2:00 AM. I didn't even have to look at the screen to know it was her.

"Grant? Are you awake?" Her voice was small, cracked, and wet with tears.

"I'm here, El. What happened?"

"He left. He got a job in Iceland and just... he said he couldn't do long-distance. He’s gone, Grant. I feel like I can’t breathe."

I was at her apartment in fifteen minutes. I didn't care that I had an early staff meeting or that I was wearing mismatched socks. I stopped at an all-night bodega and bought her favorite chocolate and those expensive tissues with the lotion in them because I knew her nose would get sore from crying.

When she opened the door, she collapsed into my arms. I stood there in the hallway, holding the woman I love while she sobbed for another man. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a vice, but I kept my voice steady.

"It’s okay, El. I’ve got you. Just breathe."

We sat on her sofa for four hours. I let her ruin my favorite hoodie with her mascara. I listened to her recount every beautiful thing Caleb had ever said to her, and every way he’d broken her heart in the end. I had a thousand things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her that a man who truly loves you doesn't choose a landscape over a life with you. I wanted to tell her that I’ve been standing right here for half a decade, waiting for her to look at me the way she looks at his Instagram feed.

But I didn't. I hid every bit of my own heartbreak behind a mask of "supportive friend."

"You deserve the world, Elena," I said, tucking a blanket around her as she finally started to drift off toward dawn.

"You’re the best person I know, Grant," she whispered, her eyes half-closed. "I don't know what I'd do without you. You're like... the brother I never had."

That sentence felt like a physical blow to the stomach. Brother. I sat there in the dark, watching her sleep, feeling the weight of the ring I’d bought three months ago—the one currently hidden in my gym bag because I was too chicken to ever show it to her.

This morning, I made her coffee and cleaned up the takeout containers from her living room. I left a note on the counter telling her I’d check in later. As I walked to my car, I saw a post on her story. It was a photo of the sunrise with the caption: "Rough night, but so lucky to have my rock @GrantS. Don't know how I'd survive the losers without my best friend."

I’m at my desk now, pretending to look at student files. My heart is in pieces, but I’m already looking at flights to a spa resort in Arizona. She mentioned once she wanted to go there to "find herself." I’ll probably tell her I won a gift certificate at work and give it to her so she can go and heal. I’ll stay here, work the extra hours to pay for it, and wait for the next time she needs a shoulder to cry on. I’m a counselor; I’m supposed to help people through their pain. I just didn't realize my own pain was the price of her comfort.