And my heart just... shatters.
He's sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders caved in like the weight of the world is sitting there with him. His eyes are red and glassy, swollen from crying, and in his hands—gripped so tightly his knuckles are white—is the picture frame he always keeps on his nightstand.
The photo of him and his dad after winning the peewee championship.
His first big win.
The one he was so proud of.
There are fresh tear tracks on his cheeks, his expression twisted in a kind of grief that's too old and too deep for someone our age to be carrying.
My hand flies to my mouth, the plastic bag sliding right out of my grip and thudding to the floor. I don't even hear it. I just move.
"Oh, babe..." The word barely leaves me before I'm crossing the room and dropping to my knees in front of him.
He doesn't hesitate. Not for a single second.
The frame slips from his hands onto the mattress as he reaches for me—pulling me into him, into his chest, into the shaking of his breath. His arms wrap around me so tightly I can feel every tremor running through him. His face buries into my neck, hot tears soaking straight through the old hoodie I stole from him years ago.
"I miss him..." His voice cracks, shattered. "God, babe—I miss him. I miss him so much."
My own eyes burn instantly. I hold him just as tight, arms circling his shoulders, one hand sliding up to the back of his head.
"I know," I whisper, pressing my cheek against his hair. "I know, Zach. I'm here. I'm right here."
He breaks.
It's the quiet kind of breaking—the kind that rips through someone who's spent an entire day holding everything together for everyone else. His body curls into me, shaking with every breath he tries and fails to steady.
"I tried," he chokes out. "I tried to be fine for my mom today. I tried to keep it together but—" His voice fractures again. "It just hurts so damn much."
My heart twists. "You don't have to be fine with me," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair, gentle, slow. "Not today. Not ever. Just let it out, Zach. I've got you."
He clings harder—fist tightening in the fabric of my hoodie like he's scared I might disappear if he loosens his grip even a little.
So I hold him.
Tighter.
Closer.
Matching him breath for breath, tremble for tremble.
He cries into my neck, soaking my skin, my clothes, my heart—letting out everything he locked away all day. Everything he didn't let his mom or his sister see. Everything he never lets the world see.
No one gets this part of him.
No one ever has.
Except me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper into his hair, over and over like a prayer. "Cry as much as you need. I'm here. I promise, I'm here."
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Maybe less. Time goes soft around us, fading into the background as he presses closer, letting grief pour out in ragged, quiet waves.
And as I hold him, something inside me aches—because all I can think is:
How did he survive the last three years without someone to do this?
