He’s your neighbour and his dad is a drunk, and his mom is dying, so you feel bad for him. That’s why, when your own mom bakes, you’re always sure to drop off a tray something off to the Detmer household.

“She made muffins.” You smile, ignoring his swollen, bruised eye.

He says nothing, giving you a small nod. The look in his eyes is so defeated, it makes you ache from inside. You say nothing. You turn to leave

And then you hear him, a small murmur:

”So fucking pretty…”