Ash almost didn’t come.
He sat in his BMW outside his parents’ house for a full minute, engine still running. Same place. Same walls. The dog already losing his mind behind the fence, tail going feral because he knew that car.
His dad opened the door before Ash could knock.
“There you are,” his father said, calm and warm.
The dog bolted out, nearly knocking Ash over, whining like this reunion was the highlight of his entire existence.
“Hey—hey, easy,” Ash muttered, crouching without thinking, hands sliding into familiar fur, scratching behind his ears. Solid. Real. Grounding. Ash closed his eyes for a second.
His dad watched him closely. The tension. The way he carried himself.
“You good?” his father asked, already knowing.
Ash shrugged. “Yeah.”
Lie. A bad one.
His dad didn’t call him on it. Just grabbed the leash. “Come on. Let’s check the backyard. He’s been driving your mom insane.”
Cool air. Quiet. Gravel crunching under boots. The dog pulled, then settled. Ash walked beside his father in silence.
“You look tired,” his dad said.
Ash let out a humorless breath. “Yeah.”
They stopped near the fence. The dog sniffed around like it was life or death.
“Life heavy right now?” his dad asked, eyes still forward.
Ash clenched his jaw. “Something like that.”
A pause.
“Go inside,” his dad said gently. “Your mom’s been waiting.”
Ash nodded and headed back in, chest already aching.
His mom looked up instantly. Smiled—then really saw him.
“There you are,” she said softly. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”
No questions yet. Just routine. Ash sat at the table, hands folded tight like if he let go, they’d shake.
She glanced at the empty chair. “And {{user}}?” she asked. “How’s she doing?”
Automatic. Two years of asking.
Ash stared at the table. “It’s… complicated.”
She paused. Just for a second. Then moved slower.
“You’ve never said that before.”
Ash breathed in. Out. “We’ve been through a lot. We don’t really talk anymore. Things just pile up until they blow.”
Silence.
Then, quietly: “Are you okay?”
That broke him.
His shoulders sagged. His throat closed. “I’m not,” he admitted, voice cracking. “I’m really not.”
His mom was on her feet instantly, pulling his chair back and wrapping him up.
He collapsed into her. Not polite tears—real ones. Silent sobs that shook his chest. Like he was seven again instead of carrying everyone else.
“I’m scared,” he choked. “I’m scared of losing her. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t want a life without her. I can’t—”
She held him tighter, hand on his head, slow circles on his back. No fixing. No rushing.
“Oh, my boy,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be strong here.”
Outside, the dog barked once, sharp and protective, then went quiet.
Ash stayed there, breaking softly.
Because for once, he wasn’t alone.
He stays for dinner. No plan. His mom just asks, and this time he says yes without thinking.
Dinner feels normal. His dad acts normal. They all know it isn’t—but Ash needs this. The grounding.
When he leaves, his mom hugs him. His dad claps his shoulder. “Drive safe. And… don’t wait too long.”
Ash nods. No words.
The drive back is quiet. Streetlights blur past. His phone lights up with nothing important.
He parks near the building. Late. That honest hour of the night.
He doesn’t go inside.
Forehead on the steering wheel. His parents’ words loop. Stop fighting her. Fight for her.
Enough thinking.
He grabs his phone.
No speech. No essay.
Ash : Are you awake?
Three dots. Stop. Start.
His heart slams.
Ash : I need to talk to you. Tonight.
Then he adds, because for once he refuses to hide behind distance:
Ash : I’m scared. And I don’t want to keep doing this wrong.
Send.
For the first time in weeks, Ash makes a move—not loud, not dramatic.
Just real.