The shift ended in silence.
Not the kind that means something went wrong.
Just the kind that wraps around you when everyone's too tired to pretend they're fine anymore.
Trevor stood outside near the loading dock, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes on nothing in particular. The kind of look people mistake for "deep in thought," but actually means "I'm not ready to go home yet."
I stood next to him without asking.
He didn't look over.
Didn't have to.
"I used to feel like that all the time," I said.
Trevor didn't answer.
So I continued.
"Like you want someone to notice you're there… but the moment they do, you kinda want to disappear."
Still nothing.
But he didn't walk away.
Which meant everything.
"I had this moment last year," I said. "Was standing in front of the fishbowl in my apartment. Harold, my goldfish—he was just floating there, doing his little laps, and I realized... if I died, he'd probably outlive me. Not because he's special. Just because he has less to carry."
Trevor cracked a half-smile.
"That's dark."
"It is," I said. "But it was also the first honest thought I'd had in weeks."
He finally turned toward me.
"You always seem so balanced."
I exhaled.
"Balance isn't peace.
Sometimes it's just control."
"And control feels empty?"
"Sometimes.
Sometimes it's just… hollow.
Like I'm building a room inside myself no one else ever walks into."
Trevor nodded slowly.
"I get that."
"You ever feel like you're not sad, just… unfinished?"
He let that one sit a while.
Then said:
"Yeah.
Like there's a version of me I'm supposed to be.
But I haven't met him yet."
The air got quiet again.
Not awkward.
Just… honest.
He kicked at the gravel.
"My mom once said I was hard to love."
"Mine just stopped trying," I said.
"Ever tell anyone that before?"
"Nope."
"Why now?"
I shrugged.
"Because you looked like you needed someone to not be okay with."
A long pause.
Then Trevor reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the towel Everett gave him.
Still folded. Still clean.
"It's weird, right?
How one folded towel can feel heavier than all the crap we carry."
"That's Everett," I said.
"You think he ever feels this way?"
"I think he just learned how to turn the hollow into a place to sit quietly."
The door creaked open behind us.
Jude's head popped out.
"I brought donuts. You two done bonding or do I need to officiate something?"
Trevor chuckled for real that time.
"We're good, Father Jude."
"Spiritual trauma certified," he called, raising a powdered donut like a communion wafer.
As we walked back in, I glanced at Trevor.
He looked a little taller.
Not because anything changed.
But because something was finally shared.
And that's the thing about loneliness:
It echoes loudest in people who never say a word.
But once you let someone else echo back…
it's not silence anymore.
It's connection.