Aren came home after a long workout session, sweat clinging to him beneath his jersey. He could've changed—if he'd remembered to bring spare clothes.
The smell hit him first.
Curry. His favorite. Warm, sharp, familiar.
He stepped inside and found his mother by the stove, stirring the pot with slow, practiced motions. It wasn't even five yet—still a few hours until dinner.
"Mom…" Aren exhaled, placing his bag on the table. "Don't be moving too much."
She looked over her shoulder, smiling like it was no big deal.
"Just prepping early. You like it fresh, right?"
He frowned, jaw tightening.
"That's not the point."
He crossed the room in a few slow steps, gently taking the ladle from her hand.
"I told you I'm cooking tonight," he murmured, placing it aside.
His voice came out softer than he meant. He hated how fragile it sounded—how much it betrayed the fatigue still gnawing at him from the gym, from that guy.
His mom blinked at him, reading the exhaustion in his shoulders.
"…Rough day?" she asked.
Aren didn't answer. He couldn't. Not yet.
Her legs were swollen again — tight, pale, stretched from the fluids her kidneys couldn't filter out anymore. Every step she took sounded like effort. Even breathing was work; Aren could hear the faint, wet rasp under each inhale. Fluid in the lungs. He knew what that meant, even if no one ever said it aloud.
And the medication…
God. The medication.
Drugs for her kidneys strained her heart. Drugs for her heart tore her kidneys apart. Pick a poison, pick a sacrifice — there was no right answer, just the least cruel one.
As if that wasn't enough, she still needed insulin. Three injections a day. On time. No excuses.
Aren swallowed, jaw tightening as he watched her lower herself into the chair he'd pointed to. Her legs trembled. She hid it well — or tried to — but he saw everything.
He always did.
It was a miracle she'd been discharged at all.
The doctors hadn't said that, of course — but Aren had seen their faces. The careful words, the heavy pauses. And then, somehow, she was allowed to go home.
Later, he'd overheard a nurse mentioning that his mother had thrown a tantrum. Not a loud one — the quiet, stubborn kind. The kind where she folded her arms and said she was going home and that was the end of it.
It had been a week since then.
And every day, she seemed a little better. Eating more. Smiling longer. Walking without gripping the walls.
Maybe it was because she was home. Maybe being around family… did more than all the pills stacked on their kitchen counter.
Aren wanted to believe that.
He needed to.
Aren was exhausted — more than usual. His body felt heavier in a way that had nothing to do with the extra reps or the piled up documents in his PC.
After helping his mother into bed and giving her her insulin, he took a long, steaming shower. The kind that made the soreness spread out instead of fade.
When he finally stepped into his room, the lights stayed off. Only the faint amber glow of the late afternoon sun crept through the blinds, striping the room with soft, dying warmth.
He dropped onto the mattress without bothering to dry his hair. Just laid there. Still as a rock.
The hum of the ceiling fan. His heartbeat in his ears. Muscles throbbing with the deep ache of a day stretched too far.
A nap would feel… amazing.
He let his eyes drift closed, already sinking. The world softened around the edges. And Aren slipped into sleep.
Naps were a gamble. A high-risk, high-reward maneuver.
Sometimes you'd wake up in twenty minutes feeling reborn. Other times you'd blink and suddenly it was dark outside, drenched in sweat, confused, dehydrated, and questioning every life choice that brought you there.
In Aren's case, he woke up two hours later — not to an alarm, and not because his body had had enough.
He woke up to screaming.
"Aren!"
Jordy's voice came from downstairs, muffled by the walls.
His step-father never yelled. Not like this. Not ever.
"Aren!!"
The second shout was closer — pounding through the stairway, ripping him out of the fog of sleep. His heart kicked against his ribs. His mind was still half-swimming in drowsiness, but something in that tone sliced clean through it.
Aren pushed himself upright, breath shallow, vision swimming in the dim light.
Footsteps thundered to his room— fast, frantic, like the world was ending on the other side of his bedroom door. Then—
BANG.
The door burst open so violently it snapped back against the wall. A harsh spill of light cut through the room, framing a tall, trembling silhouette.
"Aren!" Jordy's voice cracked on the name. His eyes were wide, glassy, almost unfocused. Terrified.
"Why are you sleeping?!"
He didn't wait for an answer. Didn't even look twice. He spun and bolted down the stairs, his footsteps collapsing into chaotic rhythm.
Aren sat frozen for a beat, still halfway stuck between sleep and reality. Then the scream hit him—
"Honey! Honey, wake up!! Please!!"
It tore through the whole house.
Aren's chest tightened. His breath caught.
He stood and moved—careful at first, then more quickly, feet heavy on each step as if the air had turned dense around him.
The screams only grew louder. More desperate.
He reached the bottom of the stairs.
The house was dark — too dark. Shadows swallowed everything except the slice of harsh white light spilling from the bathroom.
Jordy's wailing echoed, raw and trembling.
Aren stepped closer. The floor felt cold. Every sound felt louder than it should've.
He reached the bathroom doorway.
Slowly, afraid to see what waited inside, Aren leaned forward—
and peeked in.
A pair of swollen legs lay motionless on the tile.
Aren's heart stopped. His body with it.
His mother was cradled in Jordy's arms — limp, pale, frighteningly still. The light overhead washed her skin into something almost blue.
Aren's stomach twisted. His lungs refused to pull in air. His throat closed like it was trying to strangle him from the inside.
"…Mom?" The word came out as a breath, a crumble, barely a sound.
He dropped to his knees.
He reached for her hand — and the cold hit him like a punch.
There was no faint heat, no gentle pulse, no weak squeeze in return.
Her chest didn't rise. Her lips had lost their color. Her eyes were closed like she'd simply gone to sleep.
"…Mom?" He whispered again, voice cracking. He blinked hard, hoping the room would shift, hoping that this was some twisteddream he wasn't fully inside yet.
"Why did you leave her alone?!"
Jordy's voice broke as he crushed her closer to his chest. His face was twisted with everything at once — fury, grief, terror.
"Why?!" He wailed again. "You were supposed to look after her!"
"I—I don't know!" Aren's voice shattered.
"I don't know!!"
The words tore out of him raw, ripped from somewhere deep enough to hurt. Tears streamed down his face, hot and uncontrollable, as guilt and panic collapsed in on him all at once.
A wife and mother had left the two men who loved her utterly powerless. She lay limp between them, unresponsive, no matter how desperately they begged her to open her eyes—even for a second.
Through the thick weight of sorrow, Aren forced himself to swallow the rising panic. Gently, he released her hand and let her settle fully into his step-father's trembling arms.
"I'll call for help." The words scraped out of his throat before he sprinted for his phone.
His fingers shook violently as he scrolled through his contacts, breath stuttering.
Who do I call? What do I even say?
His thumb hovered, then stopped on Aunt Tita's name. He pressed call and crouched down, clamping his knees together as the ringing echoed in his ear. No matter how hard he tried to steady himself, his hands wouldn't stop trembling. The cold from the tile gnawed at his bare feet, creeping slowly upward into his chest.
And then—
"Hello? What's up, Ren?" Not Aunt Tita. Yasmine.
Her familiar voice—soft, startled—slipped through the speaker.
Aren held his breath, jaw clenched tight as if opening his mouth would unleash everything he was barely holding together. But the dam broke. A choked sob escaped him.
"...Aren?" Jasmine's voice sharpened with worry.
"Yas…" he finally forced out, her name catching on his breath.
"I—I need help… I need everyone."
"O-Okay. Stay put! Are you home?" Yasmine's voice trembled, but it grounded him all the same.
"…Hm…" It was all Aren could manage. Anything more and he felt like he would collapse in on himself.
"Alright! We're coming!"
The call ended.
Aren stared at the dim screen as it went black, his mind running in a dozen directions at once. His jaw trembled. Behind him, Jordy wailed—a raw, broken sound that scraped at Aren's nerves.
"Excuse me?"
Aren flinched. A voice came from the doorway. The front door hadn't been shut properly. Neighbors, drawn by the screams, stepped cautiously inside.
Aren lifted his head. His eyes met one of theirs.
"Are you okay? We heard shouting…" the neighbor said gently, lowering themselves to their knees beside him.
Aren's eyes brimmed as he lifted a trembling finger toward the bathroom—the source of the screams.
He reached out blindly, grabbing one of the neighbors by the shoulder, needing something, anything, to hold onto as the others hurried past him.
"A-Ambulance…" He forced the word out, almost choking on it. "Please—call an ambulance."
***
Ten minutes later, cars screeched to a stop outside the house.
Aren heard familiar footsteps rushing past him as he folded into himself, knees to his chest.
The neighbors had helped Jordy carry Aren's mother to the bed. One of them—a retired doctor—checked her, face sinking with every passing second.
"Noor!"
A voice he knew—raw, breaking—called out for his mother.
"…Noor!!"
The second cry collapsed into a sob.
Aren stayed curled on the floor, unable to look, unable to breathe. Footsteps hurried toward him. A hand, heavy and firm, grabbed his shoulders.
He recoiled instantly, panic flaring like a hot blade through his chest.
"Ren! Aren, it's me—it's Uncle Bodie!"
The voice pulled him back to the surface. Bodie held him steady, gripping his arms.
"Look at me," Bodie urged, voice cracking but firm. "You need to be strong. Your mom needs a man right now."
Aren trembled as he lifted his gaze to meet Bodie's. For a moment, he swayed—caught between collapsing and holding on. Then he inhaled, shaky and thin, and forced his spine straight.
He steadied himself. He made himself steady.
And he nodded.
Bodie let his hands slip from Aren's shoulders. Together, they made their way to the bed.
Three men who loved her most stood — and knelt — around her. One held her limp hand. Another stroked her cold hair. The room felt suspended in grief, quiet except for stifled breaths.
"Aunt Noor…" Yasmine's voice cracked as she stepped inside.
Behind her, Aunt Tita stumbled forward. Her knees buckled the moment her eyes met her sister's still body.
"Oh… God…" she choked out, the sob tearing straight from her chest.
Yasmine knelt beside Aren, her hand resting gently on his trembling shoulder.
"Aren…" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
His jaw clenched hard enough to hurt, every muscle locked as if the smallest crack would shatter him completely.
***
The next morning, Aren stood before his mother's casket. His brows were stiff, his eyes quiet and hollow. No tears came. He had buried them somewhere no one could reach. For now.
It's time.
Aren stepped forward and lifted the casket. He'd spent a year building strength in the gym, had helped his mother haul furniture when they first moved in—yet nothing had ever weighed as much as this. It wasn't wood on his shoulder. It was everything he was losing.
When the final shovel of dirt thudded onto her grave, Aren didn't move. He remained there, rigid, staring at the fresh mound of earth as if waiting for it to breathe.
Jordy rested his head against the tombstone, shoulders shaking as he tried to hide his tears.
Aren sank to his knees. He placed his palm on the fresh mound of dirt—cold, damp, unforgiving. His fingers curled into it.
I knew this day would come…
A twitch pulled at his eye.
I accepted that… I thought I did…
His jaw trembled, the dam inside him cracking.
But still…
He lowered his head, letting his hair shadow his face as the first tears finally slipped free.
"Mom…" His voice broke as the sob forced its way out.
His body trembled.
"I'm sorry…" he whispered into the earth, the words splintering like glass in his throat.
"I'm sorry—" He barely choked the words out before the dam finally shattered.
A thin, broken sound escaped him as he sobbed, his chest tightening so violently it felt like it was turning him inside out.
Why did I sleep?!
His cries grew harsher, ripping through the quiet graveyard.
I should've been there… I should've been there…
He dug his fingers into the cold mound, gripping it with everything he had left.
I didn't even get to say goodbye…
The thought tore through him, raw and merciless, hollowing him out from the inside.
***
Aren opened the fridge, stomach twisting from hunger. He hadn't eaten since morning.
A pot of curry sat alone on the shelf — the last thing she ever made for him.
He lifted it out with both hands, set it on the stove, and stared as the flame lit beneath it. Though the kitchen lights glowed warmly overhead, the house felt… cold.
Too quiet. Like even the walls were grieving.
At the dining table, he and Jordy sat facing their untouched plates — rice, curry, steam curling upward only to vanish in the air between them.
No words passed. Just breathing. Just silence.
Aren took a spoonful, brought it to his lips, and tasted it.
Hot. Spicy. Familiar.
But something in it felt wrong. Empty.
His throat tightened as he swallowed.
Even though it burned his tongue. Even though it steamed.
Somehow…
"…It's cold," he whispered.