I kick off my shoes by the door. They fall sideways instead of neatly side by side like Dad always insists. He hates clutter. Says chaos starts with shoes left in the wrong place.
I walk toward the hallway without thinking.
Jace takes a few steps forward. Boots quiet on the hardwood floor. He stops near the living room, scanning the space carefully. The couch. The coffee table. The framed photos on thewall. He takes it all in with that guarded, assessing look he wears when he doesn’t trust the world.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, but it’s a lie so obvious it’s almost insulting. “I just need a minute.”
I climb the stairs slowly, my hand sliding along the banister. Each step creaks in the same spots as always.
My bedroom door is halfway open. When I get to it, I step inside and push it shut behind me.
Everything is exactly how I left it this morning. Bed unmade. The duvet twisted from where I kicked it off in a rush. My hoodie slung over the back of my desk chair. The photo from my recital two years ago still sits beside my lamp. Dad’s arm is wrapped around my shoulders, his grin wide, pride written all over his face. He’d cried that night and said it was allergies.
I stare at that photo for too long and lean back against the door, letting my head rest on the wood, and for a moment, I just stand there, trying to breathe through it.
Then, the weight hits.
The hospital room, the machines, the wires taped to his skin. The doctor’s calm, careful voice telling me nothing except that he had a severe stroke, and now all we can do is wait.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor. My knees pull up to my chest on instinct. My hands cover my face and I cry the way I didn’t in front of the nurses.
The way I didn’t in front of the doctor.
The way I didn’t in the car in front of Jace.
Time loses all meaning. It shatters into fragments—a breath, a hiccup, the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.
Eventually, my throat burns and my head aches. My tears fade into shallow breaths and silence.
The house seems overly still. It hums with absence.
I push myself up off the floor, my legs unsteady, fingertips dragging across my cheeks to wipe away whatever’s left of the tears.
I open my bedroom door and walk into the hallway. The silence that surrounds me is deafening.
Suddenly, I wonder if Jace has left because that’s what Jace does. He drifts in and out, and doesn’t owe anyone anything. He’s the boy who never sticks around after. The one who disappears before things get complicated.
And tonight was fucking complicated.
Maybe he waited a few minutes, stood in the living room, and looked around at the family photos before deciding this was all too much and left.
The thought makes my chest hurt.
I descend the stairs slowly, one hand brushing the banister, each step creaking under my weight.
When I get to the bottom step, I stop.
He’s still here, lying on the couch.
Moonlight filters through the blinds of the living room window, casting soft silver lines across him. It highlights the sharp edge of his jaw. His blond hair falls over his forehead. His shirt has ridden up slightly, revealing a strip of skin above his waistband. One arm rests on his stomach, while the other is tucked beneath his head.
He looks peaceful.
Nothing like the boy who throws out filthy one-liners and walks away before anyone can get too close.
For a moment, I think he’s asleep, but then his voice breaks through the quiet.
