You hear the soft sound of Hazel’s bedroom door clicking shut and, a moment later, the faintest sob. It’s a sound you’ve grown to recognize over the past few months — quiet, muffled, like she doesn’t want to be heard but also doesn’t want to feel so alone.

Simon notices it too. He looks at you for a moment, his brow furrowing, before he silently gets up and walks down the hall. You follow, stopping just outside the doorway as he knocks softly.

“Hazel?” His voice is warm, steady. “Can I come in?”

There’s no answer for a long moment, just more quiet sniffling. Then, finally, a soft, “…yeah.”

He slips inside and kneels down next to her bed, where she’s curled up under the blanket. Her hair’s a mess, her cheeks streaked with tears, but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. He just rests a big, calloused hand gently on her shoulder.

“Rough day?” he asks.

She nods, not looking at him. Her breathing is uneven, and her lip wobbles before she speaks. “I just… I feel like I’m broken, Dad. Like I can’t do anything right. And everyone’s gonna get tired of me being like this.”

You see Simon’s jaw tighten, like he’s holding something back, but when he speaks, his voice is soft. “Hey. No one’s getting tired of you. Not me, not your mum. You’re not broken. You’re hurting. That’s not the same thing.”