I've always measured my life in seconds.

   Three seconds of air beneath my tires. Five seconds to decide if a jump was worth the risk. Two seconds between life and something else entirely.

   That day, I was chasing time like I always did. Pushing it, stretching it, bending it to my will. The morning light cut through the trees at the track, dew still clinging to the grass. My dirt bike growled beneath me, engine humming like a heartbeat, waiting for release. I breathed in the smell of dirt and gasoline. My personal brand of religion.

   "Rhodes! You trying to die today or what?" Theo leaned against the fence, coffee in hand, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else at 6 AM. But he was there. He was always there.

   I revved the bike, feeling the vibration rattle through my core. "Only on Tuesdays."

   Today was Tuesday.

   The track was empty except for us—I'd bribed the owner to let me practice before they officially opened. I wanted the dirt fresh, untouched. Something about being the first one to carve into it.

   "One more run," I said, even though I'd already promised that three runs ago.

   Theo rolled his eyes. "Last one. Then breakfast. I'm fucking starving."

   For years afterwards, I'd wonder what would've happened if I'd just said yes to breakfast right then.

   The weight of my helmet felt right, the plastic shell that had saved my life more times than I could count. I took off down the straightaway, building speed, the world blurring at the edges. This was living—this rush, this freedom, this reckless dance with gravity.

   I hit the first jump clean. Soared over the second. By the time I approached the triple, I was flying.

   I remember thinking: Perfect. This is fucking perfect.

   Except it wasn't.

   Looking back, I can't tell you what went wrong. Maybe the front tire caught wrong. Maybe I misjudged the approach. Maybe it was just my time. But I remember the sickening lurch as the bike twisted beneath me, the moment of suspension when I knew. I knew. This wasn't going to end well.

   Two seconds. That's how long I was in the air, separated from my bike, arms windmilling uselessly against the inevitable.

   One second wondering if this was it.

   One second accepting that it might be.

   I didn't feel the impact. Not really. There was noise—a sickening crunch that didn't sound human. Then nothing.

   Just a strange weightlessness. Floating above myself, watching as Theo vaulted the fence, coffee forgotten, his mouth forming my name over and over though I couldn't hear it.

   I tried to move, to tell him I was okay.

   But I wasn't.

   The pain came next. White-hot, blinding, swallowing everything until the world went dark around the edges. I remember gasping, "I can't feel my legs."

   But that couldn't be right.

   "Don't move. Fuck, Cal, don't move." Theo's face hovered above mine, terror etched into lines I'd never seen before. He was already on his phone, voice steady despite the panic in his eyes. "I need an ambulance at Ridgeline Track. My friend... he's—" His voice cracked. "Just hurry."

   I tried again to feel my legs. Nothing.

   "Theo." My voice sounded strange, distant. "I can't feel anything below my waist."

   His eyes locked with mine, and I saw it. The moment he realized what I was saying. What it meant.

   "You're going to be fine," he said, but we both knew he was lying.

   I don't remember much after that. Fragmented images: the whir of helicopter blades, the ceiling of the emergency room sliding overhead, my mother's muffled sobs from somewhere beyond my field of vision.

   And Kate. Standing in the doorway of my hospital room three days later.

   "The doctor said it's a spinal cord injury," I told her before she could ask. My voice flat. "I'm paralyzed from the waist down." I couldn't look at her as I said it. "It's permanent."

   She didn't cry. Didn't rush to my side. Just stood there, fingers twisting the strap of her purse, and said, "Oh, Cal."

   Just that. Oh, Cal. Like I was a sad story on the evening news.

   Three surgeries. Two months in the hospital. Physical therapy that pushed me to the edge of what I could bear. Through it all, Theo was there, bullying me into doing one more rep, one more lap, one more anything. My parents hovered, trying to help without doing too much.

   Kate visited less and less.

   "I have a work thing," she'd text. Or, "Not feeling great today, catch you tomorrow?"

   Tomorrow stretched into a week. Then two.

   I wasn't surprised when she finally showed up, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She sat in the chair beside my bed, careful not to touch me.

   "I can't do this, Cal."

   "Do what?" I asked, even though I already knew.

   "This. Us." She gestured vaguely at my lower half, at the wheelchair in the corner. "I thought I could, but... it's just too much."

   I waited for the pain. For something to crack open inside me. But all I felt was a dull, empty weight. Like I'd been expecting this all along.

   "Too much," I repeated.

   She wouldn't look at me. "You know what I mean. Everything's different now. We can't do normal things anymore."

   "Normal things." My laugh came out harsh. "Like what, Kate? Dancing? Hiking? Or just fucking standing up?"

   She flinched. "That's not fair."

   "None of this is fair." I stared at her, wondering how I'd ever thought I knew this woman. "But at least I don't have a choice. You do. And you're making it."

   "I still care about you." Her voice broke. "I just... I'm not strong enough for this. You deserve someone who can handle it."

   I closed my eyes. "Get out."

   "Cal—"

   "Just go."

   She left. And that was that.

   The thing about being broken is that people look at you differently. Some see only what you've lost. Some see what they think you need. Almost no one sees you anymore.

   After Kate, there were others. Women who thought they could handle it—until they couldn't.

   "It's not you," they'd say. "You're amazing. It's just..."

   Just the chair. Just the constant reminders that I wasn't whole.

   By the time I left rehab, I was an expert at pushing people away before they could leave. Sarcasm became my shield, cynicism my armour. Let them think I was an asshole. It was easier than letting them close enough to decide I wasn't worth the trouble.

   Only Theo refused to be pushed away. He moved into my apartment "temporarily" while I adjusted to my new reality.

   Temporary turned into six months.

   "You know you can leave," I told him one night, after I'd been particularly shitty. "I don't need a babysitter."

   He didn't look up from his phone. "I know."

   "So why are you still here?"

   Now he did look at me, his expression unreadable. "Because I'm your friend, dickhead. And friends don't bail when shit gets hard."

   I wish I could say that was the moment I turned a corner, that his loyalty restored my faith in humanity or some inspirational bullshit like that.

   But it wasn't.

   I spent the next year learning to navigate a world that wasn't built for me. Learned which restaurants had ramps and which had "just one little step." Learned which friends would stick around and which would drift away with vague promises to "catch up soon." Learned to live with the stares, the awkward questions, the way people would talk to whoever was with me instead of directly to me.

   Learned to live with the fact that my life would never be what I'd planned.

   I went back to work—graphic design was one thing I could still do without modification. I joined a gym with adaptive equipment. I went through the motions of rebuilding a life.

   But something in me had hardened. Calcified around the belief that some things weren't possible anymore. Love, for one. Real love—the kind that sees past limitations, that chooses to stay when things get hard.

   "You're not even trying," Theo accused me one night, after I'd blown off yet another blind date he'd set up.

   "What's the point?" I wheeled past him to the fridge, grabbing a beer. "Three months in, they all get the same look. That 'this is too hard' look. I'm just saving us both the time."

   "That's bullshit and you know it." He blocked my path, forcing me to look at him. "You're using that chair as an excuse to keep everyone at arm's length."

   "Move."

   "You're afraid."

   "I said move."

   "You'd rather be alone than risk someone else leaving."

   I slammed my beer down, liquid sloshing over the rim. "Can you blame me? You've seen how they look at me. Like I'm broken. Like I'm some fucking charity case they can feel good about dating until it gets inconvenient."

   Theo's anger deflated, replaced by something worse.

   Pity.

   "Not everyone is Kate."

   "Might as well be." I pushed past him. "I'm going to bed."

   That night, lying in the dark, I allowed myself to feel the full weight of what I'd lost. Not just my legs. Not just Kate. But the possibility of someone seeing me—all of me. And choosing to stay anyway.

   Some losses you learn to live with. Some you don't.

   By the time I turned twenty-seven, I'd accepted my new normal. I had a routine. A job I was good at. A best friend who refused to give up on me, even when I deserved it. Parents who loved me, even if they didn't always understand me. A sister who treated me exactly the same as she always had. Like an annoying big brother who happened to sit down a lot.

   It wasn't a bad life. Just a different one than I'd imagined.

   And if sometimes, late at night, I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like to have someone look at me and see more than my limitations?

   Well, that was my secret to keep.

   I'd made peace with the fact that love wasn't in the cards for me. That some doors had closed the moment my spine shattered on that track.

   I was wrong.

   But it would take someone stubborn as hell and twice as fearless to prove it to me. Someone who looked at me and didn't see a broken man or a charity case or a problem to solve.

   Someone who just saw me.

   I just didn't know it yet.

Author's Note

Hey,
If you made it this far—thank you. Break Me Gently is one of those stories that's been sitting heavy on my heart, and finally getting it out there feels... a little terrifying, honestly.

This book dives deep into disability, mental health, and what it means to be truly seen by someone. It's slow-burn, emotional, and messy in all the best (and worst) ways. I really hope you connect with it.

Updates will be every Saturday, so stick around if it's your vibe.

I'd love to hear your thoughts, even if it's just screaming into the void with me.

Rosy