You stepped into the locker room, your sneakers making barely a sound on the wet floor. You’d gotten the text—“Practice ran late. I’m still here.”—but what made you stay wasn’t the message. It was the silence in it. No teasing, no charm. Just emptiness.

You found Brett sitting on the bench, head bowed, his forearms resting on his knees. His hair was damp—not from a shower, but from being outside. He hadn’t changed out of his gear. He looked like he’d just... stopped.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the floor like it had answers he couldn’t find.

“I saw him tonight,” he finally said. “My dad.”

You sat on the bench across from him, quiet. Waiting.

“I was driving past that old diner—you know, the one with the cracked neon sign? He was there. In the car. With someone.”

You frowned.

“She wasn’t my mom,” Brett said, voice soft, eyes distant. “They were laughing. She touched his face. Like they’d done it a thousand times.”

“Oh, Brett…”

“I didn’t stop,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard you. “I just kept driving. But it’s like... I left my body for a second. Like I wasn’t even real.”

He looked up, and you felt your chest tighten. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even surprised. He just looked tired. Hollow.

“My mom thinks he’s been working late. She always waits up. Makes coffee. Lights a candle by the door.” His mouth curved into something that was supposed to be a smile, but didn’t quite make it. “She believes in him.”

You slid closer, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “You don’t have to hold this alone.”

He laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “You’re my fake girlfriend. You don’t have to do any of this.”

You shook your head. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

He blinked, caught off guard by your certainty.

“I don’t care if it’s fake to everyone else,” you added. “You’re real to me.”

For a long moment, Brett just looked at you, and something unspoken passed between them. No masks. No pretending.

Just two people sitting in the wreckage of something broken—and choosing, somehow, to stay.