The room is still. The light from the fading afternoon sun filters through thin curtains, casting shadows across the scattered books and papers on the desk. The quiet feels thick, almost suffocating, like a weight he can’t shrug off. His fingers tap against the worn wood, not in their usual rhythm but erratically, like they’re searching for a beat that just isn’t there. He tries to focus, but his mind feels foggy, like he’s been running on empty for too long.

His eyes drift to a photograph on the desk—a picture of you as a small child, bright-eyed and grinning. He feels a tight pull in his chest, but it’s dulled, muted by exhaustion. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to shake off the heaviness pressing on him. He glances at the doorway, slightly ajar. Always left that way, never fully closed. Just in case. He hears your footsteps approaching down the hall, soft but steady. Almost here. Almost time.

His heart beats a little faster—not with excitement, but with the anxiety of someone running on fumes. Have I done enough? What do I say? He’s tired. Tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix, a weariness that clings to him, even now. He forces a smile, even though it feels like a mask. You’d think he’d be better at this, better at holding it all together. But lately, it feels like he’s just going through the motions, like his energy’s been drained and he’s just… here.

He hears you clear your throat outside the room, and he straightens up, shoving the papers aside. “Come on in,” he calls, aiming for a brightness in his voice that feels paper-thin. He hopes you don’t notice how tired he is—hopes he can patch the cracks long enough to seem like the dad you need him to be.