‡† The Unseen †‡

08 † Home, not rest †

He knew asking them to even let him take up a job was out of the question. They would never grant him permission to go tire himself, even though it was obvious they needed the extra that would come with it.. at least to somehow alleviate the pressure on his father's shoulders a little.

Christ..

The house was too big for how small it felt tonight.

He didn’t cry.

But God, he wanted to.

The floor felt cold under his bare feet. His forehead still pulsed from earlier.

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing this.

But for now, he would.

Because someone had to.

————

The house was finally still. Not in the eerie, unnerving way—in the complete, all-had-been-done kind of way.

His mom was sleeping, the soup only half-touched.. all that for the effort of coaxing and softly encouraging her to have something in her stomach. The house was cleaned up. Everything was in place. Except from his father, of course. And that probably meant he was pulling an all nighter..

Raven sat in his room, lights dimmed, hoodie pulled over his head like armor, as if that could shield him from whatever unseen thing that wanted to weigh on him. Why he felt the need to pull the hood up, was lost to him, but still, reason was irrelevant. Especially in moments like this. The aches had dulled into a quiet, persistent throb—enough to move, but not enough to feel.. well, alive.

He reached for his homework but couldn’t bring himself to open the books. His hands hovered, trembling slightly. Then, instead, he reached for something else—a crumpled paper left on his desk from earlier.

It wasn’t his.

It had been stuffed in his locker earlier in school. No name. Just a folded sheet, edges rough.

He hadn’t opened it before. He hadn't the time nor the state of mind to do so. He barely recalled the left sheet until he stared it down on his desk.

So much for a bad day..

But now, with the house asleep and his chest still hollow, he unfolded it.

It better not be a love letter.

Well, here goes—

His breath caught.

It was a sketch.

More like a masterpiece..

Of him.

Not on the field. Not in a crowd.

Just… sitting.

Hunched on a bench, head in his hands, hoodie half-falling off. The detail was incredibly and painfully sharp—every tired line, every shadow under his eyes. It looked exactly like the moment after his last game, when he thought no one had been watching. When he thought no one was noticing.

At the bottom corner, a single word was scrawled in tiny, tight handwriting:

“Still standing.”

Still standing..? How is this me.. 'still standing'?

He flipped the sheet. No signature.

But he knew.

Oh he knew.

Raven's lips twitched as the name of the one person who could do this hovered, taunting him, in his mind.