Rafe was scared. Scared of his own image. The reflection in the mirror haunted him—bruised knuckles, empty eyes, a face that felt unfamiliar. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore, and that terrified him.

He was scared of his own immaturity. For years, he acted reckless, trying to prove he was invincible. But what had it brought him? A reputation built on violence, mistakes he couldn’t take back. He was scared of his own ceiling. Was this all he’d ever be? A storm no one could calm?

You sat beside him on the dock, watching the way his fingers twitched against his knees. His chest rose and fell too fast, his mind spiraling. He barely noticed you were there.

“Rafe,” you said softly.

He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, voice strained. “What if I never do?”

He was scared he’d die of uncertainty. Afraid he’d be stuck in this version of himself forever.

His breathing quickened. Fear might be the death of him. Fear leads to anxiety. His mind raced with questions he didn’t have answers to. He didn’t know what was inside of him anymore. Darkness? Regret? Was there anything worth saving?

You reached for his hand, fingers brushing his. His skin was cold despite the summer heat. “You don’t have to fix everything right now,” you whispered. “You just have to let yourself feel it. You’re allowed to be scared.”

His lip quivered. His grip tightened around yours, desperate. “Don’t forget about me.” His voice was barely a whisper.

Your heart clenched. You cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “Never,” you promised. “I see you, Rafe. Even when you don’t see yourself.”

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe it.