He stops, breath shaking.
My fingers tighten around his, showing my support. “I know,” I whisper.
He shakes his head once, like he doesn’t believe in comfort.
“My mother treated it like a failure,” he says. “Like he was inconveniencing her by not being… better.”
My chest burns.
“I was twelve,” he says, voice quieter now. “Drew was nine.”
I swallow hard. The look on his face says this story is about to get darker.
“We lived in a house where you learned to listen for what wasn’t being said,” Sebastian continues. “You learned to read footsteps. Doors. The way the air changed.”
I nod, because I understand that kind of hyper-awareness.
Sebastian’s eyes go distant.
“That day,” he says, and his voice thins. “Drew stayed after school for chorus practice. My mother went to pick him up.”
His fingers tremble in mine.
“I had soccer practice,” he says. “One of my friend’s moms dropped me off after. She asked if I wanted her to walk me to the door. I said no.”
The regret in his voice is immediate. Like he’s replayed that moment a thousand times.
“I walked in,” he whispers. “And the house felt wrong.”
My skin prickles.
“It was too quiet,” he says. “Like the walls were holding their breath.”
Sebastian swallows audibly.
“I called for my dad,” he says. “But he didn’t answer.”
His eyes flick to me, and for the first time, they shine with wetness.
“I heard a sound,” he continues. “A click. Like… like something being set.”
Mr. Pickles purrs harder, like he knows.
Sebastian’s voice turns into something raw. “I turned the corner,” he whispers.
And then he stops, unable to say it.
I squeeze his hand harder, steadying him.
“You don’t have to describe it,” I say softly. “You can just tell me what it did to you.”
Sebastian’s eyes snap to mine.
That hits him. That gives him an out.
And for a man like Sebastian, an out is mercy.
His exhale is ragged. “The gunshot still rings in my ears.”
