I would not make this about me.

I would not do anything that would take even a fraction of their energy away from what really mattered.

We sat there for an hour. Maybe more.

Mom talked. Dad talked. Beverly asked questions.

I didn’t say a word.

Swallowed the words I had been practicing all day.

Shoved them deep down, where they couldn’t see the light.

I felt Beverly’s gaze burning into me.

I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.

Because I had already forgotten how to be hers.

Because in that moment, I had remembered what I was first.

A son.

I let my body go cold. Erased the way she had looked at me that morning. Erased the way she had whispered, “I’m yours.”

And when I finally forced myself to look at Beverly, to the girl who had spent the whole day waiting for me to say something that I no longer had the right to say, she knew.

She knew before I even said a word.

She knew before I could even walk away.

And Christ, I wish she hadn’t looked at me like that.

Like I had just broken her heart.

* * *

I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands buried in my hair, elbows digging into my knees. The room was silent, suffocatingly so, except for the occasional sound of my own ragged breathing. It felt like the walls were closing in, each inch closer a reminder of the words I couldn’t say, the future I couldn’t claim.

A soft knock at the door shattered the silence. I knew it was Beverly. Who else would it be? I kept my eyes fixed on the wall, my body rigid. She knocked again, a little louder this time, her voice muffled through the door.

“Blake, I know you’re in there…” Her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t demanding. It was unsure. Small.

“B,” I said, not loud enough for her to hear. The shape of her name on my lips felt like a betrayal of the promises I couldn’t keep.

The knocking came again, more insistent this time.

The weight in my chest only grew, pressing against my ribs until it felt like they might crack.

“Blake?” Her voice was soft, a whisper nearly drowned out by the pounding in my ears. “Please, can we talk?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What could I possibly say?

Talking meant facing what I had just done, facing the hurt I saw in her eyes when I looked away from her. The same hurt that was now clawing its way up my throat, threatening to spill out.

“Blake, please.” Her voice cracked, a desperate, choked sound that made my heart lurch painfully against my ribcage.