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The room was dark in the way that felt intentional—curtains drawn tight, the last traces of evening sealed out. The air was still, heavy, like even time had slowed down out of respect for whatever had settled there.
Dylan lay in the middle of the bed, curled inward so tightly it looked like he was trying to fold himself out of existence. Knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them, face half-hidden in the sheets. Small. Smaller than Jun had ever seen him.
Jun paused in the doorway.
He knew something was wrong.
He always knew.
But he didn’t say anything. Because sometimes questions felt like pressure. Sometimes words made the weight worse. So he just stepped inside quietly, closing the door with a soft click, like he didn’t want to disturb the dark.
For a moment, he just looked at him.
And his chest tightened—sharp, aching—at the sight of the boy he loves trying so hard to disappear.
Jun crossed the room slowly and climbed into bed behind him. The mattress dipped, a subtle shift. Dylan didn’t move at first, but he didn’t pull away either.
Jun didn’t ask.
He just slid closer and wrapped an arm around Dylan’s middle, careful, gentle, like holding something fragile. Firm enough to be real, soft enough not to trap him.
For a few seconds, there was only breathing.
Uneven at first. Dylan’s shallow, stuttering. Jun’s slower, steadier—close enough to be felt.
Then, quietly—
“It’s back,” Dylan whispered.
His voice sounded distant, like it had to travel through something thick just to reach the surface.
Jun tightened his arm slightly. Not trapping—anchoring.
“The.. heaviness,” Dylan went on, words catching. “In my chest. Like I can’t—” he inhaled sharply, but it didn’t seem to fill him. “—like I can’t get enough air.”
Jun shifted just enough so his breathing was more noticeable, more present. In. Out. Slow. Steady.
Dylan tried to follow it.
“I didn’t do anything,” Dylan said after a moment, the frustration bleeding through the softness. “Nothing even happened. And it’s just.. here.” A pause. “Like I’m not enough. Or like I’m too much. I can’t tell which is worse.”
Jun pressed his forehead lightly against Dylan’s back.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t try to fix it.
“I’m here,” he said quietly.
Dylan’s fingers tightened in the fabric of the sheets. “It feels so real.”
“I know.”
“I hate that it feels real.”
Jun’s arm shifted just slightly higher, his hand resting over Dylan’s chest, as if he could hold the weight down or keep it from crushing him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jun murmured.
Dylan’s breathing hitched again. Something in his chest started to loosened—not much, just enough to be felt.
Jun was quiet for a second.
The room stayed dark. The heaviness didn’t vanish. It lingered, stubborn and cruel, pressing into Dylan’s ribs like it belonged there.
But now there was something else too.
Warmth.
Arms around him.
A steady breath he could lean into when his own failed him.
Dylan exhaled, shaky.
“Don’t let go,” he whispered.
Jun held him closer, grounding, certain.
“I won’t.”
And in the quiet, in the dark, with the weight still there but no longer faced alone—they breathed together, waiting for something softer to come.