It wasn’t meant to be a heavy evening.

Your mom had set the table with the chipped blue-and-white plates she liked to call vintage, even though they were just old. Your dad kept adjusting the jazz playlist, hoping it’d make the evening feel more casual, more grown-up. You’d told them Nic was a friend. Just a friend. From college. Smart. A writer.

The kind of introduction that skips all the complicated parts.

He arrived five minutes early. Jeans clean, hair still damp at the ends like he’d showered just for this. And maybe he had. Maybe it was one of those days where pretending to be okay didn’t feel like work. Not yet.

Dinner was simple—baked ziti, a salad with too much dressing, garlic bread burnt at the corners. He laughed when your dad said help yourself, kid, and even reached for seconds. His charm was real. That soft-edged sweetness he always carried, like he wanted to be good even when he couldn’t promise it.

Then, midway through your mom’s story about getting lost in Venice, he excused himself.

Just a quiet “bathroom?”, and a nod.

You saw the hesitation in the way he stood—too slow, like he was already calculating the weight of the door in his hand. He was gone a little longer than he should’ve been. You noticed.

In the hallway bathroom: a cluttered cabinet, the kind that never quite shut all the way. Inside—your brother’s leftover painkillers from a shoulder surgery, forgotten muscle relaxants, your mom’s old prescription for something she never took again. You hadn’t thought to clear it out.

But Nic had always been good at finding what wasn’t his.

He came back different. Not visibly altered, not at first. But his pupils were a little wider. There was something around his mouth too—tightness. Something in his voice that smoothed out a little too much when he thanked your mom for the bread. Something in the way he kept looking at the fork in his hand, like he was trying to remember what to do with it.

You knew him. Knew that version of him. The way he got quieter, but not in a peaceful way. A certain slouch to his shoulders like gravity had doubled. He barely touched his plate after that.

Your dad asked about his major. Nic smiled. Said something vague about literature and maybe transferring. His answers were slow, thoughtful—except they weren’t really answers.

Your mom watched him a little too long.

But the thing was—he stayed.

He leaned back in his chair and listened while your mom told a story about your kindergarten teacher. He laughed at the right parts. He let your dad talk his way through two glasses of wine and a half-baked theory about jazz being the only true American art form. He didn’t eat much, but he didn’t leave either.

And when you caught his gaze across the table—soft, blinking, lost and still tethered—he gave you a tired, crooked smile.

Later, you found him in the kitchen, quietly helping your mom rinse plates.

“I’m okay,” he said, before you could even ask. His voice low, hoarse from either the cold or the weight of trying.

You didn’t answer, just handed him a towel.

He dried a glass like he’d done it a hundred times before. Still quiet. Still here.