The house is loud in the way it always is.

Not with noise, but with memories.

You can hear the creak of the floorboards and feel the weight of the silence like it’s sitting in the room with you.

Ian is on the couch, knees pulled up, hoodie up, eyes staring at the TV that isn’t on.

He’s not asleep. He’s not awake.

He’s just… there.

Your stomach twists.

You’ve learned that look.

It means his mind is somewhere else, and he’s dragging his body through the present like it’s a burden.

You sit beside him quietly.

You don’t ask what’s wrong.

You don’t demand he talk.

You just rest your hand on his knee.

He flinches, then relaxes, like he was waiting for someone to touch him and remind him he’s still real.

“Hey,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

So you keep your voice soft.

“I’m here,” you say. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Ian’s jaw tightens.

His eyes flick to you, and you see it—those loud thoughts in his gaze, the ones he won’t say out loud.

You can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself together with sheer will.

He finally speaks, voice low.

“I’m not okay,” he says.

You nod slowly, not surprised.

“I know,” you whisper.

He exhales sharply. “I feel like I’m always falling apart.”

You don’t try to fix him.

You don’t try to reassure him.

You just stay.

“Then fall apart here,” you say quietly. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, startled.

“Why do you care?” he asks, voice rough.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you lean in and rest your forehead against his shoulder.

“Because I love you,” you say softly. “And because you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Ian’s eyes close.

For a moment, you can feel him trying to push you away, trying to be strong, trying to be okay.

But he doesn’t.

He lets himself be small.

He lets himself be held.

His voice cracks.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he whispers.

You tighten your hand on his knee.

“You’re not,” you say.

He swallows hard, like he’s trying to hold back everything inside.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “Of what I am. Of what I’ll do. Of what I can’t control.”

You keep your voice steady.

“I’m scared too,” you say. “But I’m here.”

Ian’s breathing slows, just slightly.

You can feel the edge of the panic loosening.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Then, quietly, he asks, “What do you think about when you’re scared?”

You think for a moment.

“About you,” you admit. “About how you don’t have to be perfect. About how you’re still you, even when you feel like you’re not.”

Ian’s lips part, like he wants to say something.

But he doesn’t.

He just rests his head against your shoulder and lets the silence sit between you—soft, safe, and real.

You don’t fix him.

You don’t solve him.

You just stay.

And in that moment, that’s enough.