max felt sick.

he got daddy issues, he knows that. he got them from the man stuck around but wasn't present, left eventually, left money behind all the while he brought his son's childhood with him.

everything got paid for. it was rough, and he felt like throwing up. he didn't even take any liquor, tried to not linger on some, not with the neverending feeling of a lump in his throat that kept him throwing up every day because he just felt like he had to give away something and it'll be his choice and not his dad's.

he told himself, in the back of his head the day he learned how things work, how things were, how it will always be— i'm gonna be okay. he will. he has to and he promised.

but how come he couldn't tell himself those words now as he sat there on the hospital bench, shaking terribly, falling and falling apart on the inside, breaking. hands gripping on his mouth that he could rip them out at how tight he's holding at them while.

max had wished to be a good dad. he should be. he's not gonna be like his father. no. he is a good dad — people see that, he couldn't, and just try and try harder. and it's just not enough.

she was his little girl, he'd do whatever he could do. he'd run away and hide with her. but they're just not enough, those promises. not even near enough to will himself earlier to catch her from falling down the ladder.

he should be faster. faster as his dad wanted him to be. the fastest racer there is. fast, faster, fastest, swift and quick. and yet he couldn't even catch his own daughter.

and seeing you rushing to him was enough to make everything turn to sand in his mind. but the fastest one to slip was him— the fastest. “i'm—” he sputters, shakily, “i missed and i.. i...”