𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍.

𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄.

⌖ HEY MAEKO | O51. ‹ ⚜ ›
❝ i missed you so fucking much. ❞

— AUGUST NINTH
3:OO P.M. ᐟ

Four more months slipped away, vanishing as quickly as they came. Life moved forward for everyone else, time feeling like nothing more than a blur.

But not for Jasiah.

For him, every second stretched endlessly, dragging him through a slow torment. Each passing moment was another reminder that Iris was still asleep—six months & counting. Six months of silence. Six months of uncertainty. Six months of watching her body remain still, never hearing her voice, never feeling her touch.

The doctors had warned him—told him there was a real possibility she might not wake up. Not for years. Maybe not ever. He swallowed that fear at first, forced himself to believe she'd pull through. But as the days blurred into weeks, & the weeks into months, that fear became harder to ignore. It festered inside him, eating away at whatever hope he had left.

& it wasn't just Iris. It was their son too.

Jasiah knew the reality of it now—knew that if he lost them, there was no second chance. No trying again. No fixing what had been broken. These babies weren't something he could replace. They were most likely his only chance to have children. & one of them was already gone.

So again, time. Time dragged him through an agonizing limbo where the only thing worse than his grief was the fear & uncertainty of what might come next.

His friend group tried everything—inviting him over, offering to take him out, trying to distract him with anything that might take his mind off the hell he was living in. They told him he needed a break, needed to get out, needed to do something other than sit in that damn house drowning in his own thoughts.

But he always declined. They didn't know about his relapse though—didn't know about the lines he was doing just to get through the day—but they didn't push. They gave him his space, understanding that he was the kind of friend who needed distance to process his pain.

They checked in regularly though, sent messages, let him know they were there if he needed them.

Spoon was the only one who didn't give a damn about space. While everyone else respected Jasiah's need for distance, Spoon wasn't having it. He punched in the gate code, pulling up like it was a mandatory wellness check. But even he treaded carefully. He knew Jasiah—knew when to push & when to back off. Grief had a way of making a man unpredictable, & with Jasiah, that unpredictability could turn dangerous real quick. So Spoon never came in loud, never forced conversation. He'd just show up, make sure his best friend was still breathing, still here, & if Jasiah gave him even the slightest opening, he'd sit with him in silence, letting the unspoken words hang heavy between them.