It's these little things about Nate people don't see—the way he uses music to say the things he can't put into words, how he remembers every song that's ever made me smile, and the quiet way he carries my heart in his hands without making a show of it. These are the moments that remind me why he's had my heart since we were kids, why he still does. I'm glad he's finally letting himself explore music more. His whole face lights up when he sings, like he's finally letting himself be seen.

When we're finally home, my mind is a tangled mess. The emotions swirl, bleeding into one another until I can't tell where one ends and another begins.

I feel Nate's hesitation as we reach the porch, see the worry etched across his features as he glances toward the kitchen window. I know what he's thinking without him having to say a word. The way his shoulders tense, how his eyes dart between me and the house—his silent battle is written in every line of his body.

"Go check on her," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel.

I watch the conflict play across his face, the responsibility he carries like a physical weight. I step closer, raising my hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my thumb.

"It's okay," I whisper before pressing my lips to his. I pour everything I can't say into that kiss—reassurance, understanding, a promise. When I pull back, his eyes search mine, and I see gratitude mingled with reluctance.

"I'll be fine," I tell him softly. "She needs you."

He nods, and I slip through the door alone, feeling his gaze on my back until I'm inside.

The wooden stairs creak beneath my bare feet, each cool step both soothing and accusatory. I stop when I see a warm glow spilling from Mom's bedroom door, left slightly ajar like an invitation. Part of me wants to retreat to my room, to let the darkness swallow my thoughts whole. But that light pulls at something deep inside me, like a thread connecting me to every time she's ever made things okay.

I push the door open, and there she is, a snapshot of comfort in human form. Her legs are tucked beneath her in that impossible way she's always managed, making the king-sized bed look like a cozy reading nook. Her worn copy of Wuthering Heights rests in her hands like an old friend, its spine bearing the battle scars of countless readings. For a moment, I see myself twenty years from now, hoping I've inherited even half of her grace.

"Nora," she says, marking her place with practiced care. Her eyes find mine and I can already tell she knows something is off.