Chapter Ten
(Evan)
I learned silence from her.
Not the comforting kind. Not the kind that soothes. The kind that hurts. That presses into you like a weight you can't shift. That fills rooms and hearts alike with a quiet I can't escape.
She doesn't yell. She doesn't throw things. She doesn't even argue. She just… exists, carrying everything in her chest, and never says a word about it.
And I hate it.
Because it reminds me that I'm powerless.
At seventeen, I know how to fight, how to push, how to cut—but her silence cuts deeper than any words I can throw.
She doesn't cry in front of me. Doesn't beg. Doesn't even look angry. She smiles faintly, puts dinner on the table, fixes my backpack, hums quietly while I stare at my phone.
And I… I sit there, chewing and seething, because she's too patient. Too… perfect.
When she touches me—shoulder, hair, hand—I flinch. She smiles anyway. I pull back. She nods. She doesn't say a word.
I learned to stay quiet too. To not respond. To let her love exist like it's a ghost in the room.
I hide from it because facing it would be weakness.
And weakness isn't an option in a world that gives everything else away but a father.
Some nights, when the apartment is empty and she's in her room sleeping, I sit on my bed and think about the things I'll never say to her. The rage, the shame, the fear, the gratitude I can't admit.
I learned silence from her.
And now, my silence is louder than anything I could ever scream.
Because she taught me that love doesn't fix anything.
It just waits.