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I drag myself into the bathroom, the sound of the water running doing little to drown out the echo of my thoughts. I stand there for a while, letting the warm water wash over me, hoping it’ll somehow help clear the mess in my mind. I scrub my face, willing myself to stop crying, but the tears still threaten to come.

By the time I’ve changed into my pajamas, trying to put the evening behind me, the doorbell rings. I freeze, the sudden sound pulling me out of my head.

I hesitate, wiping at my face once more, before reluctantly walking to the door. I look through the peephole, and there she is—my mom.

I open the door, my exhaustion weighing on me. “Mom, what are you doing here? It’s so late.” I pull her in.

She steps past me without a word, as if she didn’t hear my question, her eyes scanning my face, taking in the exhaustion and the redness of my eyes.

“Mia,” she says softly, her tone more serious now. “I know something’s wrong.”

I close the door behind her and step back, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m fine, Mom. Really. I just?—”

She interrupts me with a look, one that cuts right through the facade. “Don’t lie to me. What happened? You were crying on the phone, sweetheart.”

She pulls me down onto the couch, her hand on my shoulder, a comforting weight. “Mia, you know I can tell when something’s bothering you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

The tears threaten to fall again. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mom. You came all the way over here, and it’s already eleven p.m. I hate to burden you with my problems.”

Her eyes soften, and she gently strokes my hair. “Mia, you never have to worry about that. I know you often try not to burden us, but we’re your family. We’re here to share in your pain, to help carry whatever weight you’re carrying.”

I shake my head, the lump in my throat growing bigger. “I’ve burdened you enough in one lifetime,” I say, my voice trembling with the weight of everything I’ve been holding in.

She pulls me into her arms, wrapping me in the comfort of her embrace. “Don’t ever think that,” she says softly. “Everything we’ve done for you, every struggle we’ve been through, it was never a burden. It was because we love you. And we’d do it all over again, a thousand times over, if we had to.”

I feel the tears begin to well up again, threatening to spill over, and I can’t hold them back anymore. I bury my face in her shoulder, my sobs coming in waves. I don’t say anything, just let the tears flow, letting my mom’s warmth and her words wash over me.

I think about how she and Dad had worked so hard to gather money for my chemotherapy when I was a child, how they sacrificed so much just to see me well again. The weight of it all, the love they gave me without question—it overwhelms me.

I hug her tighter, my tears soaking into her shirt. “I’m sorry,” I whisper through the sobs.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “We’ll always be here for you, Mia. Always.”

And in that moment, I realize just how much they’ve always had my back, no matter what. I’m not alone in this. And even though my heart feels heavy with everything that’s going on, I know I can lean on my parents. She doesn’t ask me any more questions, she just lets me cry.

JACK

Istand in front of the easel, my brush drawing magnificent final strokes on the canvas, and for a moment, I feel the rush of satisfaction that comes with finishing a piece of art. The strokes are bold, the colors layered with intention, and when I draw the last stroke, I heave a sigh of relief before setting down my brush and stretching tiredly.

I’ve been drawing this for about a week, and it’s about time I finish it. It’s a portrait of a woman, that’s all I know. I didn’t set out with a plan. I just stood in front of an empty canvas and the inspiration came to paint. It felt so natural with every stroke of my brush. It was like instinct.

Slowly, I take a deep breath, stepping back to take it all in.

When I’m a few distance away, the painting finally comes together, the features blending in a way that causes my breath to catch in my throat.

It’s a portrait of her—Mia. Her smile, the soft curve of her face, the way she looks when she’s genuinely listening.

The realization hits me slowly, like a creeping wave. My stomach twists in disbelief as I take in the details. The wild mix of colors and lines formed the image of Mia. The very woman who’s been clouding my thoughts, the one I’ve been trying to avoid.

Her. On my canvas.

My mouth goes dry, and I can’t look away. I step closer, unable to tear my eyes from the painting, from her face staring back at me. I’ve been painting her for a week and didn’t even realize it.

What is wrong with me? How did I paint her so effortlessly, so intimately, without consciously thinking about it? How did my hands, without any deliberate intention, create this?

I run a hand through my hair, completely lost in the moment. My mind is racing, my heart thumping uncomfortably in my chest. The image is too perfect. Too personal. This is beyond what I intended to paint.

She’s in my head, in my thoughts. Everywhere I look, she’s there, even when I don’t want her to be.