He ate. I watched him, tracking the way he chewed, the pauses between bites. Looking for signs of nausea, difficulty swallowing, anything that might indicate the concussion was worse than they’d thought.
“Stop,” Seth said quietly.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like I’m dying.”
The words landed like a punch. I flinched before I could stop myself, and I saw the moment Seth registered it—the way his face fell, the guilt flooding his features.
“Tanner. I didn’t mean?—”
“I know.” I stood, collected his empty water glass. “I’ll get you more water.”
“Wait.” He caught my wrist. “Wait, please. I’m sorry. That was— Fuck, I didn’t think before I?—”
“It’s fine.” The words came out automatic, rehearsed. How many times had I said them to Dad when he forgot my birthday, when he called me by the wrong name, when he looked at me like a stranger? “I know you didn’t mean it.”
“Tanner, look at me.”
I did. His eyes were clearer today than they’d been yesterday, more focused. The fog was lifting, bit by bit. He was getting better. He was going to be fine.
The problem was, I’d thought that about Dad too, in the early days. When the memory lapses seemed minor, the mood swings seemed manageable, and everyone kept saying it would get better if we just waited long enough. Before I learned that some things don’t get better. Some things just get worse more slowly.
“I’m sorry,” Seth said again. “For all of this. For making you take care of me. For putting you through this again.”
“You didn’t put me through anything.”
“I did.” His grip on my wrist tightened. “I saw your face when you walked into that room. I know what this is costing you.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I was fine, that this was different, that comparing a single concussion to years of CTE was ridiculous, and I knew that. Logically, I knew the statistics and the probabilities and the difference between a single trauma and a degenerative condition.
But logic didn’t live in the same part of my brain as the fear. And the fear was older, deeper, more entrenched than any rational thought I could construct against it.
“You’re not him,” I said instead. “This isn’t that.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy for you.” He released my wrist and let his hand fall to the blanket. “You’ve been taking care of me for three days. Who’s been taking care of you?”
Nobody. The answer was so obvious I didn’t bother saying it. Nobody had taken care of me in years, not really. I’d learned to take care of myself, to need less, to require nothing from anyone because requiring things meant being disappointed when they weren’t given.
“I don’t need to be taken care of,” I said. “I need you to get better.”
“I am getting better. Look.” He held up his hands, steady. “No shaking. Headache’s down to like a three. I can track your face without getting dizzy. The doctor said I’d be back to normal in a couple of weeks.”
A couple of weeks. Then what? Back to practice, back to games, back to the field where someone else could hit him, where the next concussion could be worse, where every snap was a chance for his brain to take another impact?
I didn’t say any of that. I just nodded and took his water glass to the kitchen and stood at the sink for a long time, staring at nothing.
By the fourth day,the notepad had three pages of entries. Seth's shoulders would tense fifteen minutes before he admitted to a headache. His answers came slower when the pain spiked—three seconds to respond instead of one, five seconds when it got bad. I counted every pause, tracked every squint when light caught him wrong, wore a path in the carpet between the bedroom and the kitchen.
I developed a routine: check on Seth, make food, clean up, check on Seth again. Rotate the ice packs—twenty minutes on his neck, twenty off, repeat. I answered emails from his professors, explaining his absence even though they all knew. I texted Hunter updates, short and factual because anything longer felt like too much. I watched Seth sleep and told myself it wasnormal, that his brain needed rest, that the way his face went slack and pale was just exhaustion, not something worse.
At night, I lay next to him in the dark and listened to him breathe. Counted the seconds between inhales like I was measuring vital signs. Sometimes he’d reach for me in his sleep, curl against my side like a question, and I’d hold very still until his breathing evened out again.
By the fourth day, he was restless. Wanted to get up, walk around, do something besides lie in bed. The doctor had cleared him for light activity, so I let him sit on the couch while I cleaned the kitchen, let him help fold laundry even though he moved slowly and had to stop twice to close his eyes against a wave of dizziness.
“This sucks,” he said, setting down a half-folded shirt.
“I know.”
