You couldn’t hide it anymore.

The dam had cracked hours ago—hairline fractures in your composure, tiny tremors in your voice—but now it had burst wide open. The tears came fast, hot, and unrelenting, slipping down your cheeks in uneven streams. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. There was no point. Each drop carried the weight of everything you’d been holding back: the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet ache of trying to seem okay when you weren’t.

You sat curled on your bed, wrapped in a soft, worn blanket that had long since lost its original color. It clung to you like a second skin, more cocoon than comfort, its frayed edges tucked around your shoulders like armor. A plush pillow was pressed tightly to your chest, your arms locked around it in a desperate embrace. It was your shield, your anchor, your last defense against a world that felt too loud, too sharp.

The pillow’s once-pristine fabric was stained now—dark blotches blooming across its surface where your tears had soaked through. The pattern was chaotic, like a map of everything you couldn’t say. Your breath hitched in uneven gasps, the kind that made your ribs ache and your throat burn. The room was silent except for the quiet, broken sounds you made—half-sobs, half-whimpers—echoing off the walls like distant thunder.

Then, the door creaked open.

The sound was soft, almost hesitant, like the house itself was holding its breath. Sunday’s voice followed, light and casual at first, unaware of the storm waiting inside. “Pom-Pom told me I was done with my chores for the day—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

The moment your sobs reached him, everything shifted. You didn’t see his face right away, but you felt the change in the air—the way the light dimmed slightly, the way the floorboards creaked under his sudden stillness. His voice didn’t come again immediately. Instead, there was a pause. A quiet recalibration.

Then: footsteps. Quick, purposeful, but not loud. He crossed the room in seconds, kneeling beside the bed with a kind of urgency that didn’t feel rushed—just deeply present.

His gloved hands hovered near you, uncertain. One curled slightly, as if reaching for your shoulder, then pulled back. He didn’t want to startle you. Didn’t want to intrude. But the worry on his face was unmistakable—etched into every line, every furrow of his brow, every flicker in his expressive eyes.

“Oh my—are… are you alright?” he asked, voice low and careful, like he was afraid the wrong word might shatter you further. “What’s the matter, honey?”

The nickname landed softly, a familiar warmth in the middle of your unraveling. He reached out again, slower this time, and placed a hand on the edge of the pillow you clung to. His touch was featherlight, tentative, like he was asking permission without words. Gently, he tugged the pillow down just enough to see your face.

You didn’t resist.

Your eyes met his—red-rimmed, glassy, and full of everything you couldn’t say. And Sunday didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His gaze held yours with quiet strength, the kind that didn’t demand anything, only offered.

His other hand came to rest on your blanket-covered arm, grounding you. His thumb brushed a slow, soothing arc across the fabric, a silent rhythm meant to calm. He didn’t speak again right away. He just stayed there, close but not overwhelming, letting the silence stretch between you like a bridge.

The depth of his concern radiated from him—not loud, not dramatic, but steady. A promise. That he was here. That you weren’t alone. That whatever this was, whatever had broken inside you, he would help you hold the pieces.