The walk home was the quietest part of the day.
Not silent—never silent—but quieter in a way that mattered. The noise spread out, thinned into something distant. Cars passing. A dog barking somewhere behind a fence. Wind catching loose branches and shaking them just enough to sound like something moving.
Adrian kept his hands in his pockets as he walked.
There was a rhythm to it. Same streets. Same turns. He didn't need to think about it anymore. His body just moved.
That helped.
Thinking too much usually didn't.
A car passed a little too close to the curb, tires hissing against the edge of the road. Adrian didn't look up. He just stepped a little farther to the side and kept going.
By the time he reached his street, the sky had dipped into that in-between color—not quite day, not quite night. Everything looked flatter. Quieter.
Safer.
His house sat near the end of the block. Nothing special. Same as the others. Lights on inside, curtains half-drawn.
He paused at the front door for a second before going in.
Not long enough to matter.
Just long enough to notice.
Then he opened it.
The TV was on.
It always was.
Low volume. Some show he didn't recognize. People talking, laughing at things that didn't sound funny. The light from the screen flickered across the living room walls in uneven pulses.
His mom sat on the couch, leaning slightly to one side. A blanket draped over her legs, even though it wasn't cold.
She didn't look up when he came in.
Adrian closed the door quietly behind him.
"I'm home."
The words came out automatically. Flat. Practiced.
A beat passed.
"Mm."
That was it.
Not a question. Not really an answer.
Just enough to acknowledge that something had been said.
Adrian stood there for a second longer, waiting.
For what, he wasn't sure.
Nothing came.
He shifted his weight, then moved past the living room toward the kitchen.
The sink was half full. A plate sat on the counter, something dried along the edges like it had been there since morning. Maybe longer.
He opened the fridge.
Light spilled out—cold, steady, predictable.
Leftovers. A carton of something he didn't remember buying. A bottle of water.
He took the water.
Closed the door.
From the living room, the TV laughter swelled for a moment, then dropped again like it had never been there.
Adrian leaned against the counter and twisted the cap open.
For a second, he considered saying something else.
About school. About anything.
He pictured it—walking back into the living room, standing there while she half-watched the screen.
"Something happened today."
And then what?
A pause. Maybe a sigh.
"I can't deal with this right now, Adrian."
Or worse—
"What did you do?"
His grip tightened slightly around the bottle
.
Yeah.
That sounded right.
He took a drink instead.