It was the kind of comfort that didn't chase attention or demand a spotlight—the kind that didn't care about being remembered but still left something behind anyway, like that lingering warmth that stays in the air long after the fire's burned out and the embers have dimmed.
"I thought I had to hold everything steady. That if I ever dropped anything… the whole thing would fall apart."
Ethan didn't raise his voice. He wasn't trying to confess anything dramatic. It was just a truth, one he hadn't really said aloud before.
One that had lived inside his chest for a long time, quiet and heavy, like a knot that tightened every time he tried to rest.
Everly didn't flinch.
She didn't jump in with comfort or urgency. Her voice came softly, steady, and quiet like it always did when she wasn't trying to fix anything—be there for him.
"We know," she said.
Evelyn's voice followed a moment later, from the side now, closer than before. "We used to feel the same."
