Consume Me Whole

Under New Roofs, Old Shadows Remain

The apartment was small, cramped with mismatched furniture and a lingering scent of air freshener-lavender, maybe, trying to mask something older and stale. Monty and Estela stood just inside the door, bags at their feet, taking in the unfamiliar space that was supposed to be home now. Their mother stood a few feet away, her hands fidgeting nervously at the hem of her sweater.

"Make yourselves comfortable," she said with a strained smile, as if comfort was something you could switch on like a light.

Monty glanced around. There were signs of effort everywhere-clean towels folded neatly on the sofa, two twin beds made up with new sheets, even snacks laid out on the counter. His mother was trying, but the place still felt like someone else's life. It was too... soft, too quiet. No rattling beer cans, no shouting matches echoing through the walls. Just an awkward silence stretching between them.

His mother finally stepped closer and pulled them into a loose, unsure hug-first Estela, then him. The embrace was hesitant, like she was afraid they might bolt if she held on too tight. It wasn't unpleasant exactly, but it felt foreign. Her affection was theoretical, like a dusty object taken off a shelf and examined for the first time in years.

"It's good to have you both here," she whispered against Monty's shoulder.

Monty gritted his teeth and forced himself to nod. He knew he was supposed to be grateful, supposed to feel something for this woman who had given them life but hadn't been around to protect them from the man she left behind. Instead, he felt like his skin was too tight, his nerves stretched thin.

Estela pulled away and gave their mother a timid smile-something halfway between politeness and exhaustion. Monty stuffed his hands in his pockets, unable to meet either of their eyes. He could feel the weight of old bitterness pressing against his ribs.

He hadn't seen his mother in years, not really. He'd carried their father's hatred for her like a scar, an old wound that never quite closed. Whenever his father had raged about how she'd left them, Monty had believed every word. Even now, knowing better, the resentment clung to him like smoke.

It wasn't fair, he knew that. But fairness had never mattered much in their house. Fairness didn't explain why his mother had been absent while their father's fists did the talking, or why she was offering them safety only now that it was too late to fix what had been broken.

Estela had been quick to forgive, or maybe she just wanted to survive. Monty wished he could let go that easily, but every time he tried, the anger stirred beneath his skin, restless and hungry.

Their mother ushered Estela into the bedroom they'd be sharing, leaving Monty standing alone in the living room. He wandered over to the window, staring out at the city street below. It was quieter than he was used to, the kind of quiet that felt too heavy to sit with for long. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slipped out onto the fire escape.

The cold metal groaned under his weight as he climbed up to the roof. He perched on the edge, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. The first drag hit his lungs like relief, sharp and bitter. For a moment, he let himself disappear into it-let the smoke take up space where the guilt and confusion had settled.

He didn't belong here. He didn't belong anywhere, not really.

A week passed like that-quiet, awkward dinners and long nights spent staring at the ceiling. Monty kept his distance, retreating to the roof whenever he felt like the walls were closing in. Estela seemed to be adjusting better, or at least pretending to. She talked to their mother, tried to make conversation. Monty couldn't bring himself to do the same.

On the seventh day, Winston showed up unannounced. Monty heard the knock on the apartment door from his perch on the roof, but he didn't move. A moment later, he heard the creak of the fire escape and knew exactly who it was.

Winston climbed up, pulling himself onto the roof with a soft grunt. He dusted off his jeans and shot Monty a small smile, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. "Knew I'd find you up here."

Monty exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching it drift toward the sky. "You shouldn't have come."

"I know." Winston sat down beside him, close but not touching. "Figured that never stopped me before."

Monty huffed out a breath-half a laugh, half a sigh. He hadn't asked Winston to come, but a part of him was glad he did. Even though he wasn't sure how to say it.

They sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the city murmuring below them. Winston pulled out a lighter and flicked it open, letting the flame dance between his fingers without lighting anything. It was one of those small, fidgety habits that drove Monty crazy in the best way.

Winston didn't push for conversation, didn't ask how he was feeling or try to force words out of him. He just sat there, quiet and steady, like a lighthouse waiting for lost ships to find their way.

Monty took another drag from his cigarette, letting the silence stretch. "It's weird," he finally muttered.

Winston glanced over, his expression soft and patient. "What is?"

"Being here. With her. Feels like..." Monty trailed off, struggling to find the right words. "Like I'm waiting for something to go wrong."

Winston nodded, his gaze steady. "Old habits, huh?"

"Yeah." Monty flicked ash off the edge of the roof, watching it scatter in the wind. "It's like I can't stop looking for the cracks, y'know? Like no matter how good things are supposed to be, I'm just waiting for it to fall apart."

Winston didn't respond right away. He sat with the weight of Monty's words, giving them space to breathe. "It's not gonna be like before, Monty. You know that, right?"

Monty snorted, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Yeah, sure."

"You don't believe me."

"Not really."

Winston smiled, a sad, knowing smile that made Monty's chest ache. "That's okay. You don't have to yet."

They fell back into silence, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable but wasn't quite easy either. Monty hated how Winston could see through him so effortlessly-how he knew exactly when to speak and when to let the quiet do the work. It was like Winston could sense the spiral inside him, could feel it wrapping tighter with every breath Monty took.

"Thanks for coming," Monty mumbled after a while, the words awkward and rough on his tongue.

Winston tilted his head, studying Monty with that same infuriating patience. "Anytime."

Monty finished his cigarette and crushed it under his boot, the ember snuffed out with a soft hiss. Winston stayed beside him, steady as a heartbeat, and for a moment-just a moment-Monty let himself believe that maybe he wasn't as broken as he thought.

Not yet, anyway.