Page 112

“I don’t want to go,” he sobs, fists knotted in my shirt. “Please don’t make me go.”

Henry sinks down next to us, his face wrecked, eyes bloodshot, hands shaking. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, voice hoarse. “You hear me? Not anywhere.”

Dallas curls tighter between us, wedged in that small space where we all feel powerless—but still together. Still holding on, and for now, that’s all we can do.

Just hold on.

Dallas hasn’t spoken a full sentence in three days.

Not since that day.

Not since his whole world shattered again beneath his feet.

He moves through the house like a ghost—silent, careful, as if any noise might break something fragile. The only sounds are the soft scrape of his socks on the hardwood and the faint click of doors closing just a little too gently.

Sometimes I catch him frozen in the hallway, eyes empty, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for a blow that never comes.

He barely eats. Picks at his food, pokes at it as if trying to figure out what it even is. Last night, Maggie dropped off his favorite—chicken and dumplings. He just stared until the dumplings turned cold, then pushed the plate away without a word.

He won’t sleep in his room anymore.

The first night, I found him curled on the laundry room floor, wedged between the dryer and the wall, clutching that damned hoodie like a shield. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t there.

Henry didn’t say a word. Just sat down beside him and stayed.

Since then, he hides in a new place every night—under the kitchen table, behind the recliner, once even in the tub, his pillow soaked with silent tears. Every night, one of us finds him, and we sit. No questions. No rushing to fix it. Just being there.

What breaks me the most is the way he looks at us now. Like he’s memorizing us, as if unsure we’ll still be here tomorrow.

He flinches at the sound of his name.

Today, when I brushed his hair back, he recoiled like I’d hit him.

I locked myself in the bathroom afterward, burying my face in a towel to keep the sobs quiet.

Henry’s quiet too. I see it in the way he clutches his coffee mug like it’s the only steady thing left, in the stubble shadowing his jaw, in the hushed tone he uses whenever Dallas is near—like he’s scared to scare him away for good.

We’re both walking on shattered glass, trying not to break.

This afternoon, I found Dallas on his bed. Not hiding this time, just sitting there with a notebook on his lap. The pen rested between his fingers, but he wasn’t writing. The pages were already filled—tiny, cramped letters repeating over and over:

Don’t take me. Don’t take me. Don’t take me.

I sat down beside him, reached out. This time, he didn’t pull away.

That small mercy cracked me open.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispered, voice raw and small.

“You’re not,” I promised, though the words felt like ash on my tongue. Because I didn’t know, and that terrified me.

He looked up, really looked, and in his eyes was a raw emptiness—like a part of him had already given up.

“But I always do.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that.

It’s late.