Today starts like any other in the South Side—loud, chaotic, and unpredictable—but Ian is… off.

You notice it the second you walk into the Gallagher house. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Not spiraling, not panicking… just quiet. Too quiet.

His leg bounces nonstop. His breathing is shallow. His eyes keep zoning into nothing.

A bad brain day.

You walk toward him slowly, not wanting to overwhelm him.

“Ian?” you say softly.

He doesn’t look up. “Sorry. I just—I can’t get my head to shut up today.” His voice is flat, tired.

You take the chair next to him, keeping a gentle distance. “No need to apologize,” you say. “Bad days don’t make you any less you.”

His jaw tightens. “Feels like my whole brain is made of static. Can’t think. Can’t do anything right.”

You shake your head carefully. “You are doing something right. You’re letting someone sit with you. That counts.”

He finally glances at you, eyes red with frustration, but softening just a little. “Why do you stay?” he murmurs, voice barely there. “Even when I’m like this?”

You don’t rush your answer. “Because you’re not just your bad days,” you say. “And you don’t have to hide from me on them.”

Ian looks away, swallowing hard. His hands tremble a little, so you offer yours—not grabbing, just leaving it open so he can choose.

After a long moment, he puts his hand in yours. It’s warm. Nervous. Searching.

You can feel him relax just a bit.

“Can we just… not talk for a while?” he whispers. “Just be here?”

“Yeah,” you say. “We can just be.”

So you sit with him. No pressure. No expectations. Just quiet, steady presence.

Eventually Ian leans his shoulder against yours, the tiniest bit of weight, like testing if you’ll hold him up. You do.

And after a few minutes, he says quietly: “Thanks… I think I needed someone to remind me I’m still okay.”