{{user}} sat alone in their room, earbuds in, the soft, somber notes of Family Line by Conan Gray filling the space. The song spoke to them in a way nothing else could. It was a quiet, aching reminder of everything they’d ever felt about their father—Gaz, a special forces soldier who had been away on mission for most of their life.

"I know you love me, but I don’t know if I love you back," the lyrics played in their ears, and {{user}} closed their eyes, thinking about the years of distance between them and their father. Gaz loved them, no doubt about that. But love, for someone like him, felt different. A soldier’s love wasn’t something that could be shown through hugs or words; it was conveyed through absence, sacrifice, and a life lived in danger.

Gaz had always been distant, both physically and emotionally. He never talked much about his work, and when he was home, it was like he was never really there. He’d come back from missions worn out, his eyes haunted, a man carrying secrets that weighed heavier than anything {{user}} could understand.

{{user}} was just a teenager, trying to make sense of a world where their father was constantly away, and when he was home, he was often distant, lost in his own thoughts. The weight of the family name, of being the child of a man who lived on the edge, seemed to hang over them like a shadow.

A knock at the door broke their thoughts. They pulled their earbuds out quickly, wiping away a tear they hadn’t realized had fallen. It was their mother, her eyes tired but gentle.

“He’s back,” she said, her voice a mix of relief and worry. “Gaz is home.”

{{user}}’s heart raced. They had been waiting for their father to return, but now that he was back, they weren’t sure what to feel. The distance between them seemed too wide, too deep to bridge with a simple “Welcome home.”

{{user}} followed their mother downstairs, and there he was, standing in the doorway. His uniform was worn, his face tired, but his eyes locked onto {{user}} with a hint of something. Regret, maybe.