It's hard to tell how much time goes by until Eli calms down again. But I don't move until his shoulders stop shaking and his chest stops heaving.

I can feel the dampness on my shirt's shoulder and hear the wet sounds of his breathing as he starts to cool down. My hand draws a soothing line down his back and up again.

"I don't want you to ignore me," Eli mumbles into my shoulder, sniffing.

I pull away a little to look at him. "You were the one who started ignoring me," I speak softly.

"I know." He sniffs.

I nod.

I know what I want to say to him next, but I have to think very carefully about it. I feel like someone who found an abandoned, hurt cat on the streets. I want to help, but I know if I move too brusquely or too soon — any false step at all — and he'll either bolt or attack.

"Do you think you want to talk now?" I offer gently.

"Do I have to?" He doesn't look at me as he settles back against the wall, letting his head lean back.

My guess is whatever he had that made him come here in the first place has been cleared out of his system by his little outburst. He's sobering up and many things can be resurging. A headache, shame, regret, self-consciousness at all his admissions.

I can see that I have to take a different approach tonight than what I've normally let myself get away with. I can't ignore what he's just told me and let him distract me or deviate the topic and run. I can't force Eli to confide in me any more than he already did, but after everything he said he also can't expect me to be without reaction.

"You're the one who came here," I say. "I figured you'd want to talk."

"I do," he says, finally looking at me. "And I don't."

I nod back, because I think I can understand that.

"Can I ask how you feel right now?" I try.

"Like shit."

"How did you feel before drinking yourself stupid tonight?"

He doesn't answer right away. "Like someone rubbed novacaine on my brain."

I give it a minute, not because I need to think about what to say next, but because I want to give him time.

"Have you been sleeping well?" I murmur softly.

"No."

"Have you been eating?"

"I need to eat to play hockey."

I tilt my head. "How does hockey feel?" I try to go for gentle curiosity in my tone.

He gives me a shrug, then a sniff. "Easy. Familiar. Distracting."

"Have you told anyone about these symptoms — about the way you're feeling?"

Eli shakes his head.

"Have you maybe tried googling any of these things you're feeling?"

He shakes his head again.

I take a cautious breath in, bracing myself for the reaction I might get to my next question as I exhale. "Have you ever googled depression?"

Eli looks up from the point on the floor where his eyes have fallen to and meets my gaze. I don't want him to shut down in any way, so before I even have time to get too caught up on that look in his eyes, I keep talking.

"My mom had post-partum after Leah. I was really young at the time, but she tells me about it. She still sees a therapist every once in a while to help with anxiety and other stuff. I know post-partum is different from other types of depression, but she says she had similar symptoms."

"I'm not sick."

I purse my lips, nodding but only as a reflex. It's the kind of empty nod you give whenever someone says something you're getting ready to contradict as kindly as possible.

"You told me you don't feel well," I speak evenly. "That's not normal, Eli. The normal is feeling good, with some bad moments in between. Feeling like shit with some good moments in between is a sign that something is wrong." I pause, taking a look at him as he stares down at the floor. "I think you know this too," I add, "or you wouldn't have told me everything you just did."

He shifts in his place, still not looking at me, but I have the impression he's preparing to say something. I wait. A sharp movement in his throat readies me for his next words.

"I came to you because being with you is the closest thing I get to my old normal."

I bite my lip. "And how's that?"

He turns his head away, fixing his gaze on the electric fireplace. "Happy."

My chest clenches. This isn't a time to get distracted by own feelings. Not when a boy who has such a hard time sharing anything personal is confiding in me.

"That should be your current normal too," I speak calmly, trying to stay focused on what's really relevant. "Not because of me, or because of some sport that draws your mind away from how you really feel. Or especially because you had enough to drink to even forget to feel anything at all. But because you're healthy."

"I'm eighteen," Eli says, shaking his head as he looks at me. "I barely ever get colds and I have never even gotten a cavity."

"There's more to health than physical health," I tell him. He probably knows this. But there are certain things we know that we still need to hear from others, even if just to be reassured that they know it too. "My mom is also relatively young, she's more than well-off in life, and she has a great relationship with her big, loving family. But she still needs help from a professional every once in a while to feel better."

Eli sniffs. "People like me don't go to therapists."

I'm not even sure if he means working-class people, or jocks, or what. I honestly doesn't matter.

"If you got knocked into the ring boards and broke your arm, would you walk around with your bone sticking out or would you go to the ER and get it fixed?"

"An open fracture like that would hurt like hell," Eli argues with an eye roll.

"And untreated depression can too," I say. "Maybe worse if you go through it alone."

Eli is quiet. He glances away from me again, staring at his shoes as he chews on his bottom lip.

"I'm not saying you do have depression," I clarify. "I'm in no way qualified to make a diagnosis like that. Which is why I really think you should ask for help." I pull up onto a crouch in front of him, propping my elbow in one knee while the other rests on the floor. "Talk to your brother, your friends, a teacher, anyone at all who's equipped to deal with this with you," I urge him.

He sniffs again and I spot a tear just as it escapes down his cheek. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, wiping his face with the back of one hand.

"Coming to you," he mutters. "Talking to you... It took everything I got, plus half a bottle of tequila."

"And that was the hard part," I try to sound encouraging. He still refuses to look at me, though. "Before you talked to me, had you ever even admitted to yourself that you're not okay?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm not saying it will be easy to talk to others," I say, leaning toward him. "But it's the only way to get yourself the help you need. And I don't think you'll be able to get better without help."

He turns to face me and I pull back a little when I realize how close we are. Focus, Liam.

"I had a plan," he says. "I was supposed to work my ass off in the rink, get drafted, and play hockey until an injury took me out of the game. No distractions."

I give him a woeful smile. "This isn't a distraction, Eli. This should be your main focus."

***

I'll be honest, I don't think I like having started publishing this story without finishing the final few chapters. I have this itch to go back and edit stuff, but now it feels wrong.

I think the conversation between Eli and Liam turned out more or less like what I had in my head. It's probably become clear that this first book will only deal with the beginning of Eli's journey with his mental health, so this was an important part. Was there anything you felt was handled poorly? Being a sensitive topic, I do want to know if anything rubbed someone the wrong way.

This note is already getting too long, but I want to say that the next chapter might need a couple more days to get out. I have finally finished writing everything down, but the final four chapters that are now left still need some intensive editing.

Thanks for reading, as usual. If you think it's worth it, leave a vote or a comment and let me know what you thought of this chapter or the story so far! :)