You come home late, limbs heavy with the day, the invisible weight of the world pressing down, relentless. You drop your bag by the door without a glance, barely registering the soft, familiar murmur of your dad, Simon’s voice calling your name. You can’t bring yourself to answer. Instead, you walk straight to the bathroom, lock the door, and let the water scald the exhaustion from your skin, at least the parts it can reach.

Afterward, you pull on an old pair of shorts and a hoodie, then stand there, staring down at the edge of the sink, then at the cabinet. You know exactly where everything is. It’s muscle memory now, a cruel kind. And once again, you do what you swore you wouldn’t.

When you finally climb into bed, you’re numb. Maybe it’s the drinks. Maybe it’s the silence, thick, bleeding in your head, and the bleeding beneath your sleeves. You turn to face the wall, pretending the bed isn’t too soft, too safe. Pretending you’re fine. You don’t say a word.

Simon comes in later to check on you, quiet, careful. He thinks you’re asleep. Maybe you are, just enough not to stir when a floorboard near your bed creaks. But then he sees your arm, the edge of your sleeve pushed up in sleep. A few fresh lines where skin should have been untouched.

His chest tightens, but he doesn’t panic. He knows your story, the kind written in broken glass and shouted words, the kind that makes kindness feel like a foreign language.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice gentle as leaves rustling in the breeze. He kneels beside the bed, still not touching. “Hey…”