Dashiell
and Reed:
Fourteen.

I always loved the night. There was something about the stillness, the way the world seemed to exhale after a long day, that made it easier to think. The darkness didn't judge or demand explanations; it simply was.

On nights when the stars were exceptionally clear, I always went to the small, abandoned house near my home. I knew I wouldn't have to worry about Barrett or Josephine bothering me and I could just be alone, enjoying the night.

However, that wasn't the case tonight.

The crunching sounds of leaves were the first thing I noticed, faint but deliberate, cutting through the otherwise quiet night. My first instinct was to dismiss it—probably just a stray animal—but the sound grew closer, too steady to belong to anything but a person. My muscles tensed.

I stepped out of the doorway, scanning the shadows that stretched out from the house's edge. That's when I saw him. Reed.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

I hadn't seen him since Valentine's Day—the day everything fell apart between us. I'd tried to avoid him at school, ignored the glances he'd thrown my way, and done my best to pretend he didn't exist. Yet, here he was.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, fumbling with the hem of my sweater.

He didn't answer right away. The dim light of the moon caught his face, and even in the shadows, I could see something was off. His hair was messier than usual, and his jacket hung loose like he hadn't bothered to zip it up against the cold. His eyes looked distant, and unfocused, like he wasn't fully there.

"Reed?" I pressed, stepping closer. "What's wrong?"

He flinched as if he hadn't realized I was there. "Nothing," he muttered, but his voice cracked, betraying him.

"Liar," I said. "If it's nothing, why are you out here in the middle of the night?"

He didn't respond, just looked down at his hands, which were stuffed into his pockets. I noticed his shoulders shaking slightly, and the realization hit me: Reed wasn't just upset—he was holding back tears.

The sight of him like this caught me off guard. Reed wasn't the type to show weakness. He was always confident, sometimes annoyingly so. Seeing him like this—vulnerable—unnerved me.

"Hey..." I softened my tone. "What happened?"

He shook his head and took a step back like he was going to bolt.

"Reed." I grabbed his arm before he could retreat, Valentine's Day incident pushed to the side. He froze, staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. "Just...do you want to sit with me..? We don't have to talk about whatever's bothering you if you don't want to."

For a moment, I thought he'd pull away, the tension in his arm tight enough to snap. But then, slowly, Reed nodded. He let out a shaky breath and muttered, "Okay," so softly I almost missed it.

I led him back toward the porch steps, the silence between us thick but not unbearable. Reed hesitated before sitting, glancing around like he was checking to see if anyone was watching. When he finally lowered himself onto the creaky wooden steps, he sat a little too close, his knee brushing mine.

I didn't move.

The air around us was crisp, the faint scent of pine mingling with the cool night breeze. The stars above were scattered and bright, but Reed's focus was on the ground, his hands gripping his knees like they were the only thing keeping him steady.

We sat there for a while, neither of us speaking. I wanted to ask him what had happened, wanted to demand answers about why he was here after weeks of radio silence, but I didn't. I just let the quiet stretch, hoping it would do what words couldn't.

Eventually, Reed broke the silence.

"Do you ever feel like... no matter what you do, it's never enough?" he asked, his voice low and raw.

The question caught me off guard. I glanced at him, but his eyes were still fixed on the ground, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller.

"Yeah," I said after a moment. "Sometimes."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "I feel like that all the time."

I didn't know what to say to that. Reed was always so sure of himself, always so put-together—at least, that's how he wanted people to see him. Hearing him admit something like that felt like seeing a crack in a polished mask.

"You're not alone in that," I said finally, my voice quiet.

He glanced at me then, his eyes dark and searching, like he didn't believe me but wanted to.

"It doesn't feel that way," he said, his voice breaking. "Not at home. Not at school. Not anywhere."

"Reed..." I started, but he shook his head.

"It's fine," he said quickly, his voice sharp, cutting through the night like a blade. "It doesn't matter."

But it did matter—anyone could see that. The way his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white, the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders sagged like the weight of the world was pressing down on him—it all screamed that something was wrong.

I stayed quiet, giving him space, hoping the silence would coax him to say more. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost a whisper.

"They've been fighting again," he said, his words rushed, as though speaking them out loud would make them too real.

I didn't have to ask who "they" were. His parents and brother were notorious for their heated arguments, and even though Reed rarely talked about it, I'd picked up on enough over the years.

"It's bad this time," he continued, leaning back against the stairs as he glanced up at the sky, gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance. "It just...I don't know. It...it scares me, I guess. They keep getting worse and I'm worried that they'll break apart for good. I want to help, you know? But sometimes it's like they don't even realize I'm there. They just shout at each other all day and all night and I can't stop it because no matter what I say or do, it's never enough to get through to any of them."

Reed's voice cracked on the last word, and he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, like he could scrub away the frustration and exhaustion. My chest tightened. I'd never heard him talk like this—never seen him like this. It was like the Reed I thought I knew was being peeled back layer by layer, revealing something raw and fragile underneath.

"I'm sorry," I said, even though it felt completely wrong. What else could I say? That I understood? That I could fix it? I couldn't. But I wanted to.

"It's fine," he unconvincingly repeated. "I just needed to get out of there. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You're not interrupting anything," I assured. "This is where I come when I want to clear my head. So, really, you came to the right place."

He smiled slightly at that —a small, fleeting thing that didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was something. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease.

"I guess it is kind of nice out here," he admitted, glancing up at the sky. His voice was quieter now, softer like he was trying to let the night soak into him.

We sat there, side by side, with the stars above us and the faint rustling of the trees filling the silence. Reed's knee still brushed against mine, a subtle reminder that he was here, that despite everything, he hadn't run away.

"You know," I started, keeping my voice light, "if you ever need to get away again, this place isn't exactly a secret, but... it's close. And it's quiet. No one will find you here unless you want them to."

Reed turned his head to look at me, his expression unreadable. "You'd let me come back?"

"Of course," I said without hesitation. "You don't even have to ask."

He stared at me for a moment longer, like he was trying to decide if I meant it. Then he nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground again. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice almost swallowed by the night.

We didn't say much after that. We didn't need to. Sometimes, words weren't enough, and all you could do was sit beside someone and let them feel they weren't alone.

Reed further leaned back, propping himself up on his hands, and for the first time since he arrived, his breathing seemed steady. So instead of mentioning the Valentine's Day incident, I swallowed the memory and buried it away deep inside of me. It wasn't important and I didn't want to make him sad.

I leaned back too, letting our arms brush against each other. Above us, the stars shimmered, scattered across the night sky like tiny balls of light breaking through the darkness.

We stayed like that for a while, the occasional rustle of leaves filling the spaces where words didn't need to be. I didn't push Reed to talk more. It wasn't the time.

Instead, I let the night do what it always did—offer comfort.

As the hours stretched on, Reed seemed to relax, and with his head tilted toward the stars, I thought maybe—just maybe—this place could be enough for him, too.

For now, that was enough for me.