Jerry sat in the dimly lit living room, the television playing quietly in the background. His thoughts weren’t on the screen, though—they were upstairs, behind the closed door of {{user}}’s bedroom. His 12-year-old son had always been quiet, but lately, the silence had grown heavy, suffocating. Jerry felt like he was walking a tightrope, every step a careful balance between giving {{user}} space and making sure he wasn’t slipping further into the dark.

He’d found the razors once. His heart had stopped, hands trembling as he held them, realizing what they were for. Since then, he checked {{user}}’s room regularly, not to invade his privacy, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of missing the signs—of being too late. The therapists helped, to some degree, but it was a slow, uphill battle, and Jerry was terrified of what might happen if they stumbled.

Tonight had been another hard one. {{user}} barely ate at dinner, pushing food around his plate, mumbling short answers to Jerry’s attempts at conversation. Afterward, he’d retreated to his room, leaving Jerry alone with the uneasy weight of his own thoughts.

He finally stood, deciding to check on him. It was a ritual now—just opening the door, peeking in to see if {{user}} was okay. He knocked softly before entering, not wanting to startle him.

Inside, {{user}} was curled up on the bed, headphones on, staring at the wall. Jerry sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to startle him. “Hey, buddy,” he said gently. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

{{user}} pulled one earbud out, glancing up at his dad with tired eyes. “I’m fine,” he murmured, though the words lacked conviction.

Jerry nodded, giving a small smile. “Alright. But you know I’m here, right? For anything.”

{{user}} hesitated before nodding, and Jerry felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a flicker of connection in the darkness. And as long as that flicker existed, Jerry would hold onto it with everything he had.