Damon leaned back on the worn sofa, eyes half-closed, as Lewis, Trevor, and Rodney bantered loudly around him. Empty cans rolled across the floor, music thumping in the background, and Damon let the noise wash over him. For once, he didn't have to think. He didn't have to feel.
Then his phone buzzed insistently on the coffee table. He glanced at it. The caller ID made his stomach twist: "Mom".
He froze. His friends noticed. "Yo, your mom calling you now? Is she checking your ass?" Rodney teased, smirking.
Damon ignored them and answered.
"Hey, Mom," he said cautiously.
"Sweetheart, I want you to come home for vacation," her voice said warmly, but something underneath made him shift in his seat. "It's been too long, and I think we need some time together."
Damon's fingers tightened around the phone. He wanted to brush it off, to say he was busy with friends, with school, with life but he didn't. Something in her voice stopped him.
"Yeah… okay. I'll come," he muttered finally, though his mind was already racing.
He hung up and looked at his friends, who were now grinning knowingly. "Man… you got orders from HQ," Lewis said. Damon gave a half-smile, already thinking about the quiet house, the smell of home, and the conversations he had been avoiding for far too long.
Something about this vacation didn't feel simple.
Damon stood, stretching his arms, letting the ache in his shoulders remind him that he hadn't really been resting. Around him, the apartment buzzed with the noise of his friends, laughing, joking, music blaring. They were in their element, the kind of world he could never fully belong to, no matter how much he tried.
He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, shoulders stiff. Lewis shouted something at Trevor about a missed shot, and Rodney laughed, tossing an empty can across the room. Damon let their energy wash over him like background static. He didn't join in, didn't respond. He couldn't.
His phone buzzed again, a quiet reminder of the call he had just taken. Mom. Her words lingered in his chest: "Come home for vacation. It's been too long."
Packing a small bag, Damon moved with deliberate slowness, as if stretching out the moment could delay the inevitable. He threw in a couple of shirts, his favorite jeans, a worn hoodie, things that smelled faintly like him, like the life he had built apart from his mother. He paused to stare at the floor briefly, thinking about the house waiting for him: warm lights, familiar smells, and memories both comforting and sharp.
The guys continued their chaos around him, oblivious. He half-smiled, shaking his head, and muttered, "Enjoy yourselves".
The room gradually emptied, the music still playing softly in the background. One by one, the guys checked their phones.
Lewis stretched and yawned. His face softened as he glanced at the screen. "It's my brother," he muttered. "Guess I'd better head home." He grabbed his bag and left, walking toward the door with a small smile. The call had reminded him of the warmth waiting for him, even if it was just a few minutes of connection.
Trevor's phone buzzed almost immediately after. He frowned, swiping the notification. "Sister," he said, shaking his head. "She's checking if I made it back safe. Can't ignore that." He grabbed his jacket and waved to the emptying room. "See you guys later."
Rodney, however, just stared at his phone a little longer, then set it down without a call. No one had checked in on him today, or yesterday, or the day before. He shrugged, muttering, "Might as well head back. Nothing is waiting for me anyway." The echo of the empty apartment made his steps heavier as he walked out into the street.
The apartment was finally quiet. Damon's absence made it feel larger, emptier than before. The remnants of laughter and scattered cans lingered like ghosts of the evening. For a moment, he wished the night could stretch forever, for all of them to stay together a little longer.
But life, as always, was calling them home each in its own way, with its own kind of warmth or absence.
***
Tim moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, sleeves rolled to his elbows, music playing softly from his phone on the counter. Nothing loud. Nothing demanding. Just background sound to keep his thoughts from getting too comfortable.
He chopped onions slowly, deliberately, wiping his eyes only when the sting became unavoidable. Cooking was the one place where he didn't feel rushed. The world could wait while flavors came together the way they were meant to. He liked to control the certainty that if he followed the steps, something good would come out of it.
A pot simmered gently on the stove, steam curling into the air like quiet secrets. Tim leaned against the counter, tasting the sauce with a spoon, adjusting the seasoning by instinct rather than measurement. He never followed recipes exactly. Life had taught him that rigid instructions rarely worked out the way they promised.
The apartment was empty, but not lonely. At least, that's what he told himself. He preferred it this way: no questions, no explanations, no need to perform happiness for anyone. Silence didn't judge him. It didn't ask why he hadn't gone home yet or why no one had called to ask if he would.
His phone buzzed once. A notification, nothing important. He ignored it.
Tim plated the food neatly, even though he would be the only one eating. Old habits, maybe. Or hope. He wasn't sure which. He sat at the small dining table, chewing slowly, letting the warmth settle in his chest. For a brief moment, he felt grounded or anchored to something real and tangible.
Afterward, he washed the dishes immediately. He always did. Leaving things undone made his thoughts wander, and wandering thoughts had a way of finding places he didn't want to revisit.
He dried his hands, glanced around the kitchen, and nodded slightly, satisfied. Everything was in its place.
Tim turned off the lights and headed to his room, unaware that while he perfected meals meant only for himself, life was quietly preparing a collision he hadn't planned for: one that would demand more than solitude, more than control, and far more than silenc
To be continued...