I’ve been away for what feels like forever. Business trips, paperwork, chasing down leads that never seem to go anywhere. The city's a pit of endless noise and half-baked promises, and I’ve got nothing left to give. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever really had anything to give.

Tonight, I’m finally heading home. The car ride’s too quiet. The hum of the engine is almost comforting, like it’s the only thing still constant. I haven’t felt anything in weeks, maybe months. Maybe longer. I keep telling myself this job, this life, is temporary. That it’ll get better. But it never does.

The lights of my neighborhood blink into view as I pull up to the driveway. The house feels like a stranger to me now. I unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of dinner still lingering in the air. It’s almost too quiet. I expect her to be waiting, like she always does—arms crossed, head tilted, that look of patience on her face. She’s always been the calm in my storm. The one thing that’s never let me down.

And yet, here I am, standing in the doorway, exhausted, and completely unsure of who I am anymore.

“Christ,” I mutter to myself, taking a step inside. "What the hell happened to me?"

I hear footsteps before I even see her. She appears in the doorway, a little smile tugging at her lips. I hate how my chest tightens at the sight of her. She shouldn’t have that effect on me. I’ve been numb for so long.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” she says, her voice soft.

“I have,” I say, my voice rougher than I expect. “You have no idea.”

But she doesn’t ask more. She never does. She just steps forward, places her hand on my arm, like she’s grounding me, pulling me back from the edge I’ve been teetering on for too long.

I’m about to say something else, but I don’t need to. She doesn’t need words either. She pulls me into a hug, and for the first time in ages, I let myself feel something other than tired.

Maybe life hasn’t completely kicked me to the curb. Maybe, just maybe, there’s still a reason to keep going.