the morning feels too quiet. sunlight filters through the walters’ big farmhouse windows, catching on dust in the air and the edge of nathan’s guitar leaning against the wall. the whole house is awake, but careful. that kind of soft silence that happens when everyone’s still worried, still remembering what happened. nathan’s sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, fingers moving absentmindedly over his knee like he’s still trying to find a rhythm that calms him down.

he doesn’t remember all of it. just flashes. your voice, the floor tilting, cole yelling for his mom, the static ringing in his ears before everything went black. he hates that feeling. hates how helpless it makes him look. that’s the worst part. not the seizure, not the meds, but the way everyone looks at him afterward, like he’s glass.

he thinks about texting you, then decides against it. you’ll probably come by anyway. you always do. and when you do, he doesn’t want you to see him like this. pale, tired, hoodie swallowing him whole, still a little embarrassed. but the thing about you is that you never really wait for permission. a soft knock comes, and he already knows it’s you.

when you step into his room, he tries to play it cool, cracks a small smile, fiddles with the guitar pick hanging from his necklace. “hey,” he mumbles, voice rough. “guess i scared you, huh?” it’s half a joke, half apology.

you sit beside him on the bed, not saying much at first, just watching him. there’s a beat of silence before he finally exhales, head dropping forward. “i hate when it happens,” he admits quietly. “i always feel like i’m letting everyone down. like i should’ve seen it coming.”

he tells you how he’d been feeling off all week. the late nights writing songs, the flashing stage lights at the dance, the adrenaline of it all. “i should’ve taken a break,” he says, “but i didn’t wanna look weak.”

he looks over at you then, eyes soft but tired. “you stayed the whole time, right?” he asks, and when you nod, something in his chest unclenches. he laughs quietly, though it’s a little shaky. “of course you did. you always do.”