The house was dim—

but not from the setting sun.

Darkness clung to me like smoke.

Thick.

Suffocating.

It curled into my lungs as I sat alone…

in the silence he left behind.

He looked at me with those glassy eyes,

defiance oozing from his skin,

and downed another handful of the drug—

those sugared lies he insists dull the edge of his fury.

Not because I hurt him.

No.

Because of the man who still haunts him.

The one who lives in the shadow behind his eyes.

I begged him not to.

Not out of fear—

but out of care.

And still,

he took them.

In that moment,

he chose rage over reason…

ruin over refuge.

His fury… over us.

I shouted.

God, I shouted.

My voice cracked through the cabin walls like thunder—

not to scold,

but to be seen.

And he just stared.

Smug.

Silent.

That look—

that I don’t care glare—

it was the cruelest reply.

Because every time he turns from me,

I don’t see a man.

I see a boy.

Still trapped in the warzone of his childhood,

firing at ghosts

and calling it survival.

And then—

his sister.

Her calm eyes.

Her gentle voice

laced with ignorance.

That day on the beach—

She said I was part of the problem.

That his drowning

was somehow tied to me.

Me,

the one reaching into the waves

to pull him back to shore.

I said nothing.

Not because I was weak.

But because I loved him.

Not her—

him.

But now…

in this hush where even the seagulls don’t cry,

I find myself wondering—

How long can I tread water

before I stop calling it love

and start calling it survival?