The RV feels like it’s shrinking around you both. Ruben paces, restless energy pouring off him like static, drumsticks snapping a jittery beat against his thigh. His breathing is heavy, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks painful.

“Don’t tell me to call Hector,” Ruben spits, cutting through the thick silence. “He’ll just give me the same sponsor speech, and that doesn’t fix this.” His voice is ragged, teetering between anger and panic.

You stand near the counter, arms crossed against your chest as though bracing yourself. You remind him that Hector isn’t just some sponsor—he’s someone who’s walked through hell and crawled out the other side. More than that, Hector has found a place, a shelter for deaf recovering addicts. People who know what this silence feels like. People who understand.

Ruben freezes mid-step, the words hitting harder than he expected. He shakes his head furiously, gripping the sticks in his fists like lifelines. “No. No, I’m not one of them. I’m not—” His voice falters, the denial catching in his throat. He pounds the side of his fist against the RV wall, the hollow thud vibrating in his arm more than it reaches his ears.

You take a step closer. Your voice cuts through his storm, quiet but firm. “It is real.”

The words land like a strike. Ruben’s chest heaves, and for a moment his anger collapses into something else—fear, raw and sharp. His eyes dart to yours, wide, searching for a way out.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snaps, but his voice cracks, betraying the panic underneath. He presses his palms hard against his ears, as if wishing sound back into existence. “Every second of every day it’s real. You think I need Hector to remind me? You think I need some shelter to tell me I’m broken?”

You tell him you’re not afraid of him being broken—you’re afraid of losing him. Afraid that without help, the silence will pull him back into the darkness of drugs. Afraid that this fight, this denial, will eat him alive.

Ruben’s face twists, torn between fury and shame. He throws the drumsticks onto the table with a clatter he can barely hear, then grips the edge with white-knuckled hands, leaning his weight into it like it’s the only thing holding him up.

“I worked so hard to get clean,” he growls, voice low, almost to himself. “Every damn day I fought for it. And now you’re standing there, looking at me like I’m already using again.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t look away. You tell him you’re looking at him because you love him, because you want him to keep fighting. That Hector isn’t a step backward—it’s a lifeline.

Ruben stares at you, his breathing uneven. For the first time tonight, the anger ebbs just enough for the fear underneath to show. He runs a trembling hand over his face, eyes wet.

“If I call him… if I go there… it means the music’s gone,” he whispers, voice raw. “It means everything we built is gone.”

The silence hangs heavy, but in it is a choice.