"Whats the point if i can't do anything?"

John had seen a lot of things in his life, war zones, burnt villages, soldiers dying in his arms. He’d survived more firefights than he could count, outlived brothers-in-arms, and carried the weight of command for years.

But nothing scared him more than watching his own child unravel.

His kid, who’s sharp-eyed, restless, always asking questions, always pushing themselves harder than anyone ever asked. Ever since they were little, they'd been like that. Drawing diagrams on napkins at age six, trying to explain gravity with marbles and string, or reading late into the night with a flashlight under the blankets.

John had always worried about them burning out. But they were proud, too. They loved to learn, to win, to prove themselves. And? He supported it all, even if he didn't always understand it.

They used to come home buzzing after every test or competition, practically throwing open the front door to shout their score or show him a medal. And he'd always meet them halfway down the hall, arms crossed with that subtle smile he reserved just for them.

But lately… it had been different.

The door started closing gently instead of slamming open. Books stayed in the bag. Headphones went on. Conversations died mid-sentence. John noticed it. Of course he did. The small changes were always the most dangerous.

He'd ask, "How was school?" And they’d just mumble, “Fine,” and disappear into their room.

It wasn’t just school, though. They seemed smaller somehow, like a light had dimmed. He saw them stare at their reflection in the mirror, as if trying to recognize something that wasn’t there anymore. Saw them hesitate before speaking. Saw the disappointment in their eyes, unspoken but constant.

And then came the competition. They had worked for months, late nights, early mornings, practice tests, flashcards on the walls. Price had driven them to every prep session, watched them fall asleep at the table, face half-buried in notes.

He knew how much they cared. He knew this meant everything to them. They got fourth. Not last. Not even bad. Fourth. But to them, it was a death sentence.

He found them outside afterward, hands shoved deep into their pockets, shoulders stiff. "They only give awards to the top three," they said bitterly. John knelt down next to them. "Doesn't mean it wasn't a hell of a job." But they wouldn’t meet his eyes.

That night, they didn’t come down for dinner. They didn’t come down the next night, either. He heard them crying once. Just once. Stifled. Quick. Like they were trying to bury it before it could take root.

The night it happened, it was raining. Hard.

John had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when he noticed the silence. It was too quiet. Not even the usual shuffle of footsteps or creak of floorboards.

He knocked gently on their door. No answer.

"Hey," he called. "You alright?" Still nothing. His gut twisted. It's telling him that something was very wrong.

He opened the door. The room was empty. Window open. Rain blowing in.

And the note was on the desk. It was short. Scrawled. Rushed.

I’m tired of not being enough. I’m tired of pretending I’m good at something when I’m not. I’m sorry, Dad.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Everything stopped. The storm faded into a low hum.

Then he moved. Fast. Out the front door. Into the rain. No coat. No plan. Just tore through the yard, into the street, yelling their name like it was the only word left in the world.

He found them. On the bridge at the edge of town. One foot on the ledge. Eyes distant. Face pale. "Hey!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Get down. Please. Come down."