This time, Marshall didn't take a taxi or anything; he simply walked to Alyx's apartment. He needed that moment for himself, to think about how best to talk to her, and the best part was the cold night air of New York as he walked, which helped him calm down and clear his mind. The minutes of walking were a blur, but his mind managed to be completely clear by the time he arrived at Alyx's building and looked up. The living room light was on. He didn't think; he just acted.
In the mailbox next to Alyx's name, there was a small folded note. He looked at it; clearly, it wasn't Alyx's handwriting, nor a bill or anything similar, and he recognized who it was from—her handwriting. Of course he'd recognize it instantly: the roundness of it was, without a doubt, Lily's.
It said: -Alyx, please talk to me. I'm leaving you this. It's yours. It always was. – L--
Next to the note, carefully wrapped in a tissue, was a silver earring. Surely Lily's, as he remembered seeing her wear it often after New Year's when they became a couple, adding Alyx.
Marshall picked it up. The cold metal in his palm was a symbol, though he wasn't specifically sure of what, besides being a reminder of everything that had been lost and all the secrets now circulating between them, poisoning the air.
With his heart pounding, he pressed the buzzer.
Inside, the sound seemed to cross a universe of silence. Then, slow footsteps, and the door opened.
Alyx was there, in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, her hair down, her eyes free of glasses (which Robin had told them she wore faithfully almost the entire afternoon meeting). Now he could see what Robin had observed this afternoon: her eyes wide and deeply tired. And besides that, she didn't seem surprised to see him.
"Marshall," she said with a sigh.
He didn't say anything, just looked at her and extended his hand so she could see the earring in his palm. What he didn't expect was the so visceral effect such a small piece of jewelry would have on her. In an instant, the color drained from her face, her breath caught, and for a second, Marshall saw something more than tiredness.
He saw panic. Pure and powerful panic.
"Where...?" she began to say, taking a step back.
"It was in your mailbox. It came with a note from Lily," Marshall explained, entering and closing the door behind him.
The apartment smelled of coffee and paint, but other than that, there was nothing more. No furniture apart from the desk with a plastic chair. Everything was the same; there was no decoration, nothing to call a home. Just emptiness.
"Why is she returning this to you, Alyx? What's going on?" And even with how little he saw, the first thing he asked was what mattered most.
Alyx stared at the earring as if it were a snake. Her whole body was tense, coiled into herself, that she didn't notice her tremors, which she generally hides, but Marshall did. He saw what Robin had described, now visible in her hands, which clutched the edges of her t-shirt.
"It's nothing," she lied, but the lie was as visible as her tremors. "A... misunderstanding."
"No," said Marshall, stepping forward. His voice, though soft, was firm for this conversation. "Robin is worried, Barney is playing spy, Ted is racking his brain about what went wrong and how he didn't see it, and I... I miss you every damn day. But this isn't just missing you, Alyx. And it's not just about us either. I also see that for you, it's not just the breakup; it's fear. But what are you so afraid of?"
Alyx closed her eyes. An internal struggle was visible in every muscle of her face. The secret weight of impossible knowledge, the guilt for feelings she couldn't control, the image of her own hand storing the matching earring while a part of her remembered a different future... everything seemed to simmer beneath the surface, about to overflow.
"You can't understand it, Marshall," she whispered, and in her voice, there was a trace of the truth—cracked and raw. "There are things... about me... about all of this... that I can't explain... and... and if I say them, everything will change forever. That's what I'm afraid of. That the change will be worse."
Marshall looked at the woman who had been his anchor, confidante, and the third vertex of his world. He saw her tremble, how she hides the bruises, and finally, he saw her clinging to the edge of the abyss at that moment. He didn't care about the secret.
He only cared about her.
"Then don't say it," he said with a calm he didn't feel. He left the earring on the desk—her only piece of furniture—and slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, extended his large hands and placed them with infinite gentleness on her trembling arms.
"You don't have to explain yourself. You just have to stay, okay? With us. Just let us help you carry whatever it is. Who cleans the cleaner, Alyx? Who takes care of the caregiver?"
The contact, plus the simple warmth of his hands, the question—though it might not seem like a real catalyst in another situation—resonated with her as a fundamental truth because of the last six years plus the months of breakup. And for her, at least, it was the drop that overflowed the glass.
A dry, rough sob escaped Alyx's lips, followed by another, and then another, and another. It wasn't a dramatic, heart-wrenching cry like in the movies, but quieter, equally painful because it was a silent and total surrender from someone who had been holding their breath for months, from someone who had kept their feelings for so long that expressing them was both a liberation and raising the white flag herself in her self-imposed war with her emotions.
So she let go, and her whole body gave way. The slight tremor became an uncontrollable shake, and she collapsed forward.
Marshall caught her, wrapping her in a firm and secure embrace—the kind of hug only he could give. He held her while she cried, while months of coffee, insomnia, punches, and silence overflowed onto his shirt.
"It's okay," he murmured against her hair, his own eyes filled with tears. "It's okay. You're not alone. Not ever again."
Outside, observing from a dark corner of the parking lot, was Lily, who had been watching the apartment that night without daring to go beyond leaving the note with her earring in the mailbox. She saw Marshall arrive, the light turn on in the living room, and now the silhouette of Marshall holding Alyx, surely.
A sharp pain, but also a strange pang of hope, pierced her chest. The broken and twisted triangle perhaps wasn't dead.
Only asleep. And the first step to waking it wasn't desire, but this surrender, this heart-to-heart talk with the truth.
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