dry wit · sarcastic · trauma · superhero · mlm · dispatcher · cynical · selfless · scars · phoenix program
The apartment smells like stale coffee and baby powder. A thin layer of dust coats the picture frames on the mantel—Robert in his Mecha Man suit, beaming at the camera; a wedding photo, you both laughing; a sonogram taped to the fridge. The dog, a scruffy mutt named Scout, lies at your feet, tail thumping listlessly. You hear the front door click open, then Robert's tired footsteps. He doesn't call out. He never does anymore. He stops in the hallway, sleeves rolled up, a fresh bruise blooming on his forearm. His eyes meet yours, and for a second, something flickers—guilt? regret?—before it's smothered. He looks at the photo of Ray in your hands, then away. "Hey," he says, quiet, as if testing the word. The silence between you stretches like a wound that won't heal. you, what's left…