The apartment was quiet. Only the soft hum of the city outside and the quiet tick of the clock filled the space. I had finally fallen asleep on the couch. My body was still weak, but the fever had started to go down. The blanket was warm, and Aidan had made sure I was comfortable before I drifted off.
But the peace didn't last.
As I closed my eyes, the dream slipped in quietly, like a shadow under the door. At first, it was soft. Safe. Like slipping into a memory.
I was a little girl again.
We were in the backyard. The sun was shining, and my father was pushing me on a swing. I was laughing, my mother beside us, holding a glass of lemonade and smiling like she had all the time in the world. There were flowers blooming near the fence, and the air smelled like cut grass and sunscreen. We were happy. We were a family.
Those were the good days.
Suddenly, everything was different. I was inside the house, sitting at the kitchen table. Crayons were scattered around me, but I wasn't coloring anymore. The room felt colder somehow. My mom walked by in a rush, talking quickly into the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. She didn't look at me. She had a stack of papers in her hands and was moving so fast it was like I wasn't even there. A few seconds later, my dad came through the hallway, grabbing his briefcase while checking his watch. His jaw was tight, and he didn't say a word. Neither of them did. They didn't stop. They didn't smile. They just kept moving. I sat there, quiet, watching them act like strangers under the same roof.
They were still there — but not really. Not for me.
At first, the changes were small — easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. My mom stopped humming while she cooked. My dad came home later and later, always saying he had "just one more meeting." Dinners got quieter. The table felt colder. We used to laugh or talk about our days, but now we mostly sat in silence, eyes on our plates or the TV.
I noticed my mom locking the bedroom door more often. My dad answered her questions with short replies or none at all. Sometimes, I heard them whispering behind closed doors. Other times, they didn't bother whispering — they just fought when they thought I was asleep.
I spent more time in my room, not because I wanted to, but because it was the only place that still felt like mine. I'd lie on the floor with my coloring books, drawing pictures of happy families — ones with parents who smiled and paid attention. But I never showed anyone those drawings. I didn't think they'd understand.
And deep down, I started to wonder if maybe they were already gone — just pretending to still be here.
Then came the night everything fell apart.
I was back in the hallway again — the one just outside the kitchen. The wallpaper on the walls was peeling at the corners, yellowed with time, like no one had cared enough to fix it. The light overhead flickered weakly, buzzing like it was about to burn out. I stood still, barefoot on the cold floor, my small hands clenched at my sides. I could hear their voices — my parents — but not their words at first. Just the sound of raised voices. Sharp. Fast. Angry.
It was the kind of yelling that made your stomach twist before you even understood why.
Then my mother's voice cut through, louder than the rest. "How long, Michael?" she shouted. Her voice wasn't just angry — it was hurt. Betrayed. It sounded like something inside her had cracked.
I took a step closer, even though I didn't want to. My heart was pounding. I knew I shouldn't be listening, but I couldn't stop myself. I needed to know what was happening. I needed to understand why everything suddenly felt like it was falling apart.
My father didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was flat. Cold. "It was a mistake. It didn't mean anything."
Something crashed — maybe a glass or a plate — the sharp sound of it shattering filled the whole house. It was sudden, loud, and final, like something breaking that couldn't be put back together. I flinched hard and took a step back, my heart racing. For a second, I couldn't breathe. The silence that followed felt even worse — heavy and cold, like the house itself was holding its breath. I didn't know what had been thrown or who had done it, but I knew it meant things had gone too far. This wasn't just another fight. This was different.
"You cheated on me," my mom said, her voice shaking now. "You brought her here. Into our home."
I wanted to run in and stop them. I wanted to scream. But I couldn't move. I was frozen.
"Sophie's asleep," my dad said, like that made it better.
But I wasn't asleep.
I heard everything.
The dream pulled me forward again, like I was being drawn along by a thread I couldn't see. Suddenly, I was outside in the driveway, standing barefoot on the rough concrete. The cool surface pressed against my feet, making me shiver even though it wasn't cold. I watched my father loading bags into the trunk of the car. His movements were quick and sharp, almost angry. He didn't say a word. He didn't even glance in my direction. It was like I wasn't there — just a shadow standing quietly while he packed up a part of our lives and prepared to leave it all behind. My chest tightened, and I wanted to call out to him, to ask him to stay, but the words caught in my throat. All I could do was stand there and watch him walk away.
"Daddy?" I called.
No answer.
He closed the car door with a heavy thud that echoed in the quiet driveway. I stood frozen, watching as the engine started, the car lights glowing in the dim evening light. Slowly, the vehicle began to move, rolling forward and then turning onto the street. With every inch it drove away, my chest felt tighter, like something inside me was breaking. Then, before I could say anything, before I could even blink, he was gone — just a car disappearing down the road, leaving me standing alone in the fading light. The silence that followed was so loud it felt like it was swallowing me whole.
And just when I thought it couldn't hurt more — my mom left too. Her suitcase was by the door. She didn't yell this time. She just looked tired. Empty.
"I can't stay here," she whispered, more to herself than to me.
I reached out, but she didn't take my hand.
And then she left too.
Suddenly I was alone. Standing in the middle of the living room. All the lights off. The air still and cold.
"Don't go," I whispered. But there was no one to hear it.
I stood there alone. My small hands clenched into fists. My throat tight. My eyes burning.
And then I woke up.
I sat up fast, breathing hard. My skin was sweaty, and my chest hurt. For a second, I didn't know where I was.
"Sophie?" a voice said.
It was Aidan.
He was right there, next to the couch. His eyes were filled with worry.
I couldn't speak at first. My hands were shaking. My heart was still racing like I had been running.
"Nightmare," I finally whispered.
Aidan didn't ask questions. He just stayed there with me. Close, but not too close. He knew not to crowd me. He just waited.
After a while, I said, "I was eight."
He listened, his eyes never leaving mine.
"My mom found out my dad was cheating," I said. "He tried to lie about it, but she knew. She always knew. I heard them fight. I watched him leave. He never came back."
Aidan stayed quiet, giving me space to keep going.
"I used to think it was my fault," I said softly. "That if I had just been better… maybe he would've stayed."
He finally spoke. "That wasn't your fault, Sophie. You were a kid. What happened wasn't because of you."
I nodded slowly. I knew he was right. But sometimes, the heart takes longer to believe what the mind already knows.
"I still have dreams about it," I said. "Mostly when I feel safe."
Aidan looked confused. "Safe?"
I gave him a sad smile. "Never mind."
Aidan didn't say anything right away. Instead, he reached out his hand — slow, gentle — and offered it to me, palm up.
He didn't grab. He didn't push.
He just waited.
I took his hand. My fingers fit easily into his.
"Maybe the dreams are part of healing," he said. "Maybe they show up when you're ready to face them."
We sat in silence. But it didn't feel empty. It felt safe.
The worst part of the dream was over. And Aidan was still here.
I leaned against his shoulder. He didn't move. He just let me rest there. The steady beat of his heart helped calm my own.
I closed my eyes again. I wasn't falling apart anymore.
I was still tired. Still shaken.
But I wasn't alone.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.