When a character I created stepped from the page and sat with me in grief.
Content Warning
This piece contains references to pregnancy loss, miscarriage, prolonged physical pain, grief, blood, and emotional trauma.
Please read gently, and step away if this topic is tender for you right now.
Author’s Note
I began writing this piece inside the anniversary of the loss it describes.
At the time, I wasn’t looking for closure or release — I was looking for survival. Writing was the only way I knew how to stay present in my body while the memories pressed in, loud and insistent. This story began as a way to breathe through the day without drowning in it.
And then… I couldn’t finish it.
The release I was writing toward wasn’t something I could access yet. I had the words for the ache, but not for the letting go. So I set the piece aside and let it wait, unfinished but still holding its place.
Months later, when my body finally loosened its grip just enough to allow the release I needed back then, I returned and finished it.
This story holds both moments — the writing that kept me alive then, and the release I was only able to give myself later.
It also isn’t the first time I’ve written a fictional character stepping into my real life as a way to survive a season of grief. Writing with Gabe has, more than once, become a bridge between what I could imagine and what I could endure. This will be the first time many of you encounter that crossing, though.
If it’s something you’d like to read more of, I’m open to sharing the other pieces where Gabe Arenreeth stepped from fantasy pages into journal pages — not as an escape, but as a form of healing.
If you see yourself in this story, you are not alone. And if you are still waiting for your own release to come, please know there is no deadline on healing.
The Story
She moved mechanically through her kitchen, her body remembering the motions like an imprinted dance. Her heart, the poor, shrivelled thing, creaked open with an all-too-familiar ache.
The water boiled as she placed a chipped mug on the counter. A heavy exhale slipped from her lips.
The fridge hummed beside her, and the anniversary crept into her mind like a silent intruder.
The kettle clicked as bubbles danced inside the thick glass.
She released another exhale.
Poured the water.
The steaming liquid turned brown as the tea bag rose to the surface, puffed up with heat.
One spoonful of brown sugar.
Ignore the shake in her hand.
Stir clockwise, pray for healing and peace.
Stir counterclockwise, cast out sadness and grief.
Sip.
She warmed her hands on the cup and slowly moved into the living room.
“Why do you never call me when you feel like this?” Gabe whispered as he stepped into the room from a locked door.
He wore a sad smile, hands on his hips, like she was a silly child being scolded for stealing cookies.
She shrugged.
Gabe crouched in front of her and gently tipped her chin upward so she had to meet his gaze.
“Talk to me, darling. What’s hurting you?”
“Don’t call me darling,” she whispered, half-heartedly.
She didn’t question her own character coming to life from the pages she’d written. Not anymore. He’d visited from her fictional world too many times to be surprising. Grief had a way of summoning the strange when it needed to speak.
He had a wild lion’s mane of thick black hair that stood in every direction, like a rockstar from a ’90s hair metal band. One eye was pale blue, like ice; the other dark brown, the same shade as the tea in her hands. They were filled with empathy. His smile was calm, welcoming.
Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and she looked away again to keep them contained.
“I was… in so much pain last year at this time,” she admitted quietly. “And it feels fake to cry about it now.”
Her admission made Gabe laugh. He shook his head, and when she snapped her incredulous gaze back to him, he grinned, teeth flashing.
“You already know that’s not true,” he said as he gently took the mug from her hands. “You’re safer now than you were back then. You weren’t allowed to cry while you were in it. But now there’s no one to judge you, no one who needs you, no one who’s going to pity you or demonize you.”
He folded her hands into his, squeezing them. “Now is the best time to cry about it. Say it with me, hun. I am safe to feel everything.”
She stared at him blankly.
One sharp eyebrow rose.
“I am safe to feel everything,” he repeated. “I’m not letting you go until you say it out loud.”
“I… am safe… to feel… everything,” she echoed slowly.
Nothing broke open. There was no rush of tears, no collapse. She simply looked at him expectantly.
“You forget,” she whispered, squeezing his hands back, “I’ve been very well programmed.”
“That’s alright,” he said without missing a beat. “Now’s the perfect time to reprogram you.”
He sat fully on the floor in front of her, crossing his long legs with theatrical flair. He was well over six feet tall when standing; most of that was legs.
“Okay,” he said. “Tell me everything. As clinically as you want. Or as messily. What are you distinctly remembering?”
She had to chuckle at him before she could respond, and when she did, her gaze wandered away from him again.
“I remember the helplessness. And the fear. The pain. By that point, it was stronger than any painkillers could touch. But no one who could do something cared. And everyone who did care could only watch… and check in.”
Gabe gave her his full attention. His mismatched eyes stayed on her face even when she couldn’t meet them. She could see him nodding in her peripheral vision. When she paused, he gestured gently for her to continue.
She drew in a deep breath.
“Every time I went to the bathroom and saw blood and tissue, it felt like my heart was being stabbed…”
In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
The ache spread neatly across her collarbone, as if it had planned its route before setting out to tear her open.
“The memory is condensed. There are no days or nights — just one long, never-ending torture. It was dying inside me for two weeks, growing stronger with each day. I had no choice. No voice. No help. And now those two weeks are collapsing into one horrifying day in my mind.”
She swallowed.
“I feel more than abandoned. I survived it. I handled it with grace… and as much dignity as something like that allows. But for two weeks, I wondered how anyone survives that much pain in one event. I truly thought my heart might give out. I couldn’t sleep. Could barely move. Barely eat. All I knew was agony, day after day, while a tiny life slowly died inside me… and now I don’t know what to do with all of it.”
She stared at her open palms, as though the answer might be written there.
“And I can’t even cry about it,” she whispered. “I’m right there. I feel it — the emotions in my throat, the pressure, the fluid rising. It’s all there. But I can’t flip the switch. It won’t come out. And I need it to.”
Her voice thickened with pain. Gabe’s chest ached in response.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Crying isn’t the only way to release it.”
She snorted bitterly.
Gabe traced his thumb along her knuckles.
“I mean it. You’re talking about it. That matters. Every exhale lets your body release something. You don’t have to cry to heal this, darling.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’s doing anything,” she whispered, this time letting the pet name slide.
He smiled gently. “There’s a lot to work through. You won’t notice the dent right away.”
Her throat filled again, and this time the tears that wouldn’t rise spilled into her voice instead.
“I don’t know how much longer I can hold this.”
“I’m here,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You’re not holding it alone.”
When he pulled her into a hug, something shifted; a quiet key turning in a long-locked door.
Tears pricked her eyes. A soft sob escaped into the empty room.
Gabe — her character, and the vessel her grief had chosen for healing — was gone by the time she fell to her knees and began to weep.
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