Galen is actively avoiding me.

He spends all his time holed up in his bedroom, and his behaviour reminds me so much of how Rhys used to be when we first came to this house.

He doesn't eat dinner with us, and I never see him in passing. My heart whispers that he will come and find me when he's ready, but my head shouts louder, and wants to know why he hasn’t come to me already.

The night before I leave to go to my Dad's for the following week, I slip a handwritten note under his bedroom door.

I know he's in there. I heard him come home minutes earlier.

With my forehead resting against the cold wood, I listen and wait, and a few moments later I hear footsteps followed by the drag of the note across the carpet and the crinkle of unfolding paper.

I should move away and go back to my room, but I remain here silently and wait. Less than a minute later, I hear a dull thud and imagine Galen stood mirroring me on the other side of the door. I lean closer, laying my cheek against the cool, solid surface and my voice cracks as I whisper, “I'm sorry, Gal.”

My heart begs me to push down the handle and offer him my comfort, but I listen to my head instead.

He'll find me when he's ready.

With heavy legs, I make my way downstairs and into the empty kitchen. Part of me thinks that maybe I should leave tonight and go back to Dad's early. I'm intruding here. Unwanted. Impotent.

The pain in this house is strangling, and I feel like I’m adding to it. A burden. An extra noose around everyone’s necks.

I know I told mum I'd be here to support her, but maybe they need time to process all this on their own. Maybe they need to regroup without awkward observers.

I sit in the chair that Mum had sat in when she told us about Max, rest my head in my hands, and for a few seconds I wonder if I should pray. We've never been a religious family, so would it be wrong to pray now?

If there is a God, would He look down upon me and believe me unworthy because it takes a possible death sentence for me to reach out and ask for His help?

Despite my musings, I'm aware that someone has walked into the room and I lift my head enough to see the doorway hoping it might be Galen.

It's not. It's Max.

He seems surprised to find me here, my hands pressed together and resting on my forehead in prayer.

“Hey, Fflur,” he greets with a fake cheer in his voice before tilting his head and grimacing when Galen once more begins blasting his now favourite death metal. Max’s eyes meet mine, and I’m struck by the pain they hold. Not in the physical sense, but more like… guilt.

“Can I make you a snack or even a sandwich? Maybe you’d like some tea? Or, I know, an ice cream float. Galen used to beg me to make him those when he was smaller.”

He’s nervous, rambling and unsure. It’s awkward to experience because Galen gets his charm and confidence from his dad, and right now, Max is… lost.

I hop up from my seat.

“How about some tea? I can make it,” I rush out, grabbing the kettle and filling it to the brim before flicking the switch. Then I take two mugs from their hooks, add a splash of milk to both and a teaspoon of sugar to Max’s. I do all this in a manic frenzy, my legs buzzing with excess energy, my hands moving faster than my brain can command them, and my breaths sawing from my chest as if I’ve just run a marathon.

It’s inevitable when I drop the carton of milk, and it hits the slate tiled floor, splashing over my bare feet and hems of my jeans as it sprays an arc of liquid over the cupboard doors before it glugs out the remainder of its contents.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Down on my knees, my hands futilely scrape over the floor, uselessly scooping the milk towards the now empty carton’s spout, and I make even more mess.

Max crouches beside me, a stack of tea towels in his hands.

“It’s just milk. Don’t panic. Take a breath. We can clean it up no problem at all.”

He uses the towels to soak up the mess I’ve made while I sit back on my heels and allow the first tear I’ve shed in a long time to spill from the corner of my eye.

Time passes in silence. I’m not sure I even blink as I watch him carefully mop up the milk, gather the sopping towels in a pile, and wipe down the cupboards. When the task is finished, he lifts his head and eyes just a shade darker than his son’s lock with mine.

“Don’t cry over spilt milk, Flower.”

His words, the tender expression on his face, and the use of my once beloved nickname draw a harsh sob from my chest, one that I barely rein in with a full body quake.

“I’m not crying about the milk,” I confess hoarsely.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat for the umpteenth time.

“I know.”

He gently leans forward and pries the sticky and empty carton from my grasp, before offering me his free hand to help me up.

“Can you do something for me, Fflur?”

I nod, knowing at this moment I would help this man with anything.

“Be there for him, even if he pushes you away.”

Another tear easily follows the tracks of the last as I nod once more.

Here, with sticky milk hands, ruined jeans, and tear-filled eyes, I finally let go of everything I held against this man.

He doesn’t deserve it. He’s been through enough.

A sound from the doorway gains both our attention and we turn to see Galen watching us, his face devoid of any emotion except for the pain in his lawn green eyes.

Max leans in and kisses my forehead, before turning to deposit the wet towels in the washing machine. He then washes his hands, grabs his mug of over-brewed tea and walks towards his son.

He doesn’t say anything to him but squeezes his shoulder once as he leaves the kitchen.

“I got your note,” Galen says once Max’s footsteps can be heard climbing the stairs.

“I meant every word of it. I'm always here for you. Always.”

I stand before the boy that’s been avoiding me for days. The boy that said spiteful things to my face because he was hurting. And I let him see my truth.

I let him see the tear tracks on my face.

I let him see my chest torn open and bared for him to abuse or to seek comfort.

“He's going to fight it. He's going to win,” he declares determinedly, and I'm not sure if he's convincing himself or me.

He takes a single step into the room, bringing him closer to me but not close enough. “I'm sorry for pushing you away.”

“Don't be. There’s no need for apologies. I'm here when you need me, whenever you need me.”

I step towards him until we are toe to toe, and he sees my intent before I even know what I'm doing. With sure but shaky movements, I wrap my arms around his waist, and he drops his head to rest between the crook of my neck and shoulder.

Wetness slips under the neck of my t-shirt and trickles to gather at my collarbone. I say nothing but hold him tighter, pulling his now trembling body flush against my smaller frame. As if in response to my arms locking around him, he lets go of the hurt he’s tried to hide, and a flood of tears hit my skin and follow the same path.

I don't know what I can say to ease his pain. I don't know what I can do to soothe his hurt. So, I say nothing, and I do nothing. Except hold him.

I wish I had a flower.

I wish I had one in my hand to give to him, so I could tell Galen to expel everything that blackens his soul and let the petals absorb it, let them take it away. Because when I do that, everything is okay.

But I don't. So, I hold him. I hold him, and I don't let go.