Ian doesn’t say anything.

That’s the first sign something’s wrong.

He’s sitting on the couch, hands clasped together like he’s holding onto himself, eyes staring at the floor.

He’s not crying. He’s not angry. He’s just… gone.

You’ve seen him like this before.

The world is still moving around him, but he’s not part of it.

You sit beside him, careful. Close enough to touch, far enough not to scare him.

“Ian?” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond.

You wait.

A few seconds pass.

Then, quietly, you place your hand on his knee.

It’s a simple touch. Not demanding. Not desperate.

Just there.

He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

You keep your hand there.

You don’t ask what’s wrong.

You don’t demand he talk.

You just stay.

The TV is on, muted, showing something bright and loud and irrelevant.

Ian’s eyes remain fixed on the floor.

You can feel the tension in him like a rope pulling tight.

You take a slow breath.

Then another.

You let your breathing match his—soft, shallow, almost hidden.

You lean your head against his shoulder.

No words.

No expectations.

Just you.

Minutes pass.

You can feel him trying to build a wall between himself and the world.

But your presence is a crack in that wall.

After a while, he shifts slightly, just enough for you to know he’s still there.

You whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stay.

You don’t move.

You don’t push.

You just hold the space beside him like it’s a promise.

Eventually, Ian’s hands unclench.

His shoulders drop a fraction.

He doesn’t speak, but his body relaxes, just a little.

That’s enough.

You stay like that until the shutdown passes.

Not because you fixed him.

But because you didn’t abandon him while he was broken.

And when he finally looks up at you, eyes tired but present, you can see it in him:

He knows you stayed.

He knows you’ll stay again.

And for Ian, that’s the kind of love that changes everything.