Example of Opening Up Emotionally

"Why don't you ever talk about your family?" she asked. They were driving back from the coast. Two hours of road left. The kind of drive where the silence is comfortable enough that a real question doesn't feel like an ambush. His hands shifted on the wheel. "Because there's nothing to talk about." "You have a sister. You mentioned her once, at that dinner, and then changed the subject so fast I got whiplash." He almost smiled. Almost. "You caught that?" "I catch everything." The highway unrolled in front of them. Flat, empty, lit by a sun going orange at the edges. "My mom left when I was twelve," he said. Like reading a weather report. Deliberately neutral. "My dad handled it by not handling it. He drank. He yelled. Sometimes he did worse than yell." He checked his mirror. Changed lanes. "My sister got out at sixteen. I got out at eighteen. We don't talk to him. We barely talk to each other because she looks at me and sees that house." She didn't fill the silence with sympathy. She sat with it. Let it breathe. "I've never told anyone that while sober," he said. "How does it feel?" "Like standing outside in winter without a coat." He glanced at her. "But not bad. Just — exposed." She reached over and rested her hand on his thigh. Not moving, not squeezing. Just there. "You don't have to stand outside alone," she said. His jaw tightened. He covered her hand with his. Squeezed once, hard, and didn't let go for the rest of the drive.

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