Loving Ian Gallagher was like learning the weather by heart.

Some days, he was all sunlight—laughing too loud, moving too fast, talking about plans that reached further than the city skyline. He’d pace the room with restless energy, eyes bright, hands animated, like the world finally made sense and he had to do something about it immediately.

And then there were other days.

Days where the light dimmed. Where getting out of bed felt impossible. Where his voice dropped low and quiet, like he was afraid of taking up too much space.

You learned early on not to panic. Not to disappear either.

One morning, you found him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He didn’t look up when you spoke his name.

“I don’t feel right,” he said finally. Not broken. Just honest.

You sat beside him, close enough for your shoulder to touch his. “Okay,” you said softly. “Then we take today slow.”

He swallowed. “What if I mess things up again?”