The house felt too quiet when I came back that evening. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but the kind of silence that pressed down on me until it became its own noise, thrumming against my skull.
I shut the front door softly, though there was no real need to. Nobody was waiting for me in the hallway. Nobody was there to notice how stiffly I carried myself, or how my hand lingered on the doorknob too long, as if bracing myself before stepping inside a place that should've been home but wasn't.
Mr Morgan ended up not telling us why he called us last night.
My chest felt heavy, weighed down by the storm I hadn't figured out how to name.
Dan's face kept flashing in my mind. Not just his face—but the way he'd looked at me. Hurt. Distant. Like he'd been watching me from across a river I didn't realize had formed between us until it was too late. I should've seen it. Should've paid attention. Should've been a better friend.
But no matter how much I told myself that, the reality stayed the same: I wasn't. I was selfish, consumed in my own problems.
By the time I dropped my bag by the stairs and walked up to my room, my hands were trembling. I told myself it was because I was tired, but it was more than that.
It was everything.
The walls of my room didn't feel like mine anymore. They felt like they were closing in on me, stealing the air I needed. I dropped onto the bed, sat there for a long moment, then buried my face in my hands.
And that's when it started again.
Every thought collided with the next, twisting into something sharper, darker.
I thought about Dan. About how I'd left him to carry his own pain while I was wrapped up in mine.
Then I thought about Tyler. His eyes, always searching me. His voice, steady when mine cracked. His presence, unrelenting in ways I both hated and craved.
He saw me—sometimes too much.
And I hated myself for needing him the way I did.
Because wasn't that the point? I wasn't supposed to need anyone. I was supposed to handle my own mess, carry my own weight. Mom already had enough on her plate—she didn't need me falling apart.
But the more I told myself that, the deeper the spiral pulled me under.
You're failing Dan. You're failing Mom. You're failing yourself.
My breathing quickened. I paced the room, back and forth, until the carpet felt worn under my socks. My reflection in the mirror caught me off guard. Pale. Exhausted. My eyes rimmed red.
"Pathetic," I whispered to myself.
The word hung there, echoing in the room until it felt like someone else had said it. I gripped the dresser just to keep myself upright.
And for a terrifying second, I wondered what it would feel like if I just… let go.
But then I heard it.
"Ben?"
Tyler
The knock came just before the door creaked open. Tyler didn't wait for me to answer—he rarely did.
He leaned against the frame, hands shoved in his pockets, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle he couldn't figure out. His presence filled the room, steady and grounded, making the air shift.
"You didn't come down for dinner," he said. His tone was casual, but his eyes betrayed him. Concern, sharp and unrelenting.
I straightened, forcing my voice to stay even. "Wasn't hungry."
"Right." He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "You always look like you're about to pass out when you're not hungry."
I rolled my eyes, trying for a laugh, but it came out hollow. "You monitoring my eating habits now?"
"Someone has to."
That shouldn't have hit as hard as it did. But it did.
I turned away from him, moving toward the window just to avoid his gaze. The night outside was darker than usual, clouds swallowing the moon. I pressed my forehead to the glass, trying to cool down thoughts that wouldn't stop burning.
Tyler was quiet for a long moment, and I almost thought he'd leave.
But of course he didn't.
Instead, he said softly, "You're shutting me out again."
My throat tightened. "Maybe I have nothing to say."
"Or maybe you're scared I'll actually listen."
I spun, glaring at him. "Not everything is about you, Tyler."
He didn't flinch. "I never said it was. But don't act like I can't see it—you're drowning. And you won't even reach out for help."
The words landed too close to the truth. And instead of fighting back, I felt myself breaking under the weight of them.
"I don't know how," I whispered, barely audible.
For once, Tyler didn't push. He just walked closer, slow and steady, like he was approaching a skittish animal. When he finally stood in front of me, his hand brushed mine. Not grabbing, not demanding—just there. A lifeline I hadn't asked for but desperately needed.
And somehow, I didn't pull away.
The moment fractured when voices rose downstairs.
Mom. And his dad.
They weren't yelling,but the sharp tones carried up through the floorboards.
"Not this again, Morgan," Mom's voice snapped. "You can't keep pretending everything is fine when it's not!"
And then his dad, lower but furious: "I'm not going to argue about this in front of the kids."
The words sliced through me, making me flinch.
Tyler stiffened beside me. His jaw clenched, the calmness in his eyes flickering into something else—anger, maybe.
We both stood frozen, listening as the voices rose and fell.
"Great," I muttered, sinking back onto the bed. "Because nothing says family like a fight we're not supposed to hear."
Tyler sat next to me, his hand brushing against my knee. "This isn't on you, Ben."
But it felt like it was.
Everything did.
I wanted to say that. Wanted to unload everything—about Dan, about the guilt tearing me apart, about how I didn't know if I was strong enough to keep pretending I had it together.
But the words stuck in my throat.
Instead, I sat there, staring at the floor while the house pulsed with the sound of my mom and his dad unraveling.
Breaking the Silence
"Talk to me," Tyler said suddenly.
I shook my head. "I can't."
"Yes, you can." His voice was firm, not demanding but unyielding. "You don't have to carry this alone. Not anymore."
My chest ached. My vision blurred. And before I could stop myself, the words slipped out:
"I feel like I'm failing everyone."
Tyler froze, then turned toward me fully.
"Ben—"
"I wasn't there for Dan. I wasn't there for Mom. I'm not even there for myself. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I don't even know who I am half the time."
The confession cracked me open.
Tyler didn't try to fix it. He didn't offer empty words. Instead, he reached out and pulled me against him, arms wrapping tight like he could hold me together when I was coming apart.
And I let him.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I let myself breathe.
Closing
The fight downstairs eventually died down, but the silence it left behind felt heavier than before.
Still, in that room—with Tyler's heartbeat steady against my ear, his hand resting on the back of my neck like a promise—I realized something.
Maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep me standing.