The argument had started over something small—but with Billy, small things never stayed that way. His voice had risen, yours had too, and before either of you knew it, the door had slammed shut.

Now, hours later, you found him sitting on the floor of your room, back against the wall, legs drawn up, eyes cast down. His shoulders trembled just slightly, and when you got closer, you saw it—his eyes glossy, cheeks damp.

He was crying.

Not loudly, not fully. Just enough to let it slip through the cracks.

You sat beside him, close but not touching, giving him space without walking away.

He sniffed, trying to pull himself together, but his voice betrayed him—low and hoarse:

—“I don’t know how to be loved without screwin’ it up.”

He still didn’t look at you.