The house was empty.
Aaron could still hear the echo of the front door shutting, the muffled hum of his parents' car pulling away down the street. For a moment, the silence pressed too close, heavy and suffocating. Then he pushed the window open and climbed out.
The roof slanted gently, shingles rough beneath his paws. He settled near the peak, knees drawn to his chest, tail curling lazily across the tiles. The evening sky stretched wide and endless above him, streaked in fading amber and violet. As the light thinned, his body answered in kind—soft blue radiance blooming along his paws, the faint glow of his tail cutting a gentle halo into the dark.
Up here, he could almost forget. Up here, he could pretend the glow wasn't strange, wasn't wrong. It was just light. Just him.
The sun sank lower, shadows gathering thick at the edges of the street. Porch lights winked on one by one. The world felt distant, hushed.
Then—
A sharp vibration rattled through his pocket.
Aaron jolted, ears flattening. He pulled his phone out and stared at the screen. A name lit up in glowing white letters.
One of his friends. Someone from before.
His chest tightened. He almost let it ring out—almost tossed the phone aside and let the silence swallow it whole. His thumb hovered, frozen, as the seconds ticked down.
But at the last moment, as the ringing stuttered toward its end, he swiped to answer.
"Hello?" His voice cracked, small and unsteady.
"Aaron? Finally, man." The voice on the other end was bright, a little too bright. Forced casual. "I thought you fell off the planet or something."
Aaron pressed his knees tighter against his chest. "Yeah. Sorry. Been… busy."
There was a pause, just long enough to feel. Then laughter—soft, strained at the edges. "Busy. Right. Guess you've got a whole secret life going on, huh?"
He swallowed, the glow of his claws pulsing faintly against the phone's black glass. "Something like that."
"Well—anyway." His friend's tone lightened, filling space that Aaron couldn't. "We went to the arcade Friday. Wasn't the same without you. Nathan's still trash at air hockey, by the way. Some things never change."
Aaron closed his eyes, the image sparking sharp behind them: the clatter of pucks, greasy pizza boxes stacked on sticky tables, laughter echoing loud and unashamed. For a moment it was so vivid it almost hurt.
"I miss it," he admitted before he could stop himself. His voice was quiet, raw.
On the other end, silence stretched. Then, gently: "Then come back. Just… show up. You don't have to explain. We'll be there."
Aaron's tail flicked across the shingles, restless. His throat worked, but no words came. His reflection flashed across the dark screen, ears pinned back, eyes glowing faintly in the night. He could imagine it—walking through the arcade door like this. The laughter would die. The screaming would follow.
"I can't," he whispered.
His friend exhaled slowly. No push, no protest. Just: "Okay. Then… when you can. We'll still be here."
The call ended not long after. Aaron held the phone in his hands long after the screen went dark, the glow from his pads illuminating the edges in soft blue. He set it down gently beside him, the silence folding back over him like a blanket he couldn't shake off.
Above him, the stars bled through the last traces of daylight. Faraway, unreachable.
And Aaron stayed on the roof until the night grew deep, his glow the only light left burning.
Aaron slipped back through the window, paws landing soft against the carpet. He closed it behind him and shut the curtains, shutting out the night, shutting out the world.
The phone lay on his desk now, dark and silent. He didn't look at it. Couldn't.
Instead, he lowered himself onto the floor, pressing his back flat against the boards, staring up at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell too fast, his heartbeat drumming against his ribs like it wanted out.
They wouldn't scream. The thought clawed at him, stubborn and dangerous. They'd see me, and they wouldn't scream.
But the more he repeated it, the more it slipped, unraveling. His claws flexed involuntarily against the rug, and he felt it—the faint ripple, the presence in the back of his mind. His other side.
It wasn't pushing forward, not this time. Not demanding control. Just… watching. Lingering. A reminder that it was still there, that it always would be.
Aaron turned his head sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. His breath caught, trembling in his throat.
"Go away," he whispered, though he knew it couldn't hear. Or maybe it could. He wasn't sure anymore.
The silence pressed close, the only answer the frantic thrum of his pulse in his ears. He dug his claws into the floorboards until he felt the grain splinter beneath them.
This wasn't who he wanted to be. This wasn't who his friends remembered. Who his parents missed. Who he was.
But the glow from his pads painted the ceiling in faint blue arcs, undeniable proof that no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, he couldn't unmake it. Couldn't go back.
Tears pricked hot at the corners of his eyes, and he turned his face into his arm, muffling the sound.
He stayed there a long time, caught between exhaustion and fear, until the faint sound of the front door opening drifted through the quiet house. His parents were back.
Aaron locked the bedroom door, the soft click sharp in the silence, then slid down until he was curled on the floor, knees drawn up, tail wrapped tight around him. For a moment, it felt almost comforting—tight, contained. But the thought struck him, sudden and cold: he was curling up like an animal, hiding on the ground.
Shame burned hot across his face. With a stiff, jerking motion, he forced himself up, moving to the bed instead. He dropped face-first into the pillow, the familiar fabric cool against his muzzle. His tears soaked through fast, the soundless kind, hidden where no one could see.
In the stillness, memories pushed through, stubborn and merciless. His desk piled with books, late nights hunched over homework, the smell of paper and ink. His friends' laughter spilling across the cafeteria. Teachers' voices droning about formulas and dates he used to complain about, but now would give anything to hear again.
He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, like he could smother the thoughts, bury them with the rest. But they lingered, bright and cruel in the dark.
I miss it. I miss them. I miss me.
His claws flexed against the blanket, snagging loose threads until they pulled and unraveled. The glow from his pads leaked through the fabric, painting faint lines of blue across the sheets. He didn't look at them. Couldn't.
The house creaked faintly as his parents moved downstairs, voices too low to reach him. He didn't want them to. Not tonight.
Alone in the room, Aaron stayed very still, heart aching with everything he couldn't say, every part of himself he couldn't undo.
And when at last his body gave in, pulling him toward sleep, the pillow still held the damp imprint of the life he'd lost.
Even in sleep, Aaron's body betrayed him. He lay curled tight on the bed, knees drawn up, tail wrapped protectively along his side. The posture came without thought, instinct pressing in even as dreams carried him under.
Hours passed in silence, broken only by the hum of the house. When Catherine padded softly upstairs, a cup of tea still warm in her hand, she paused at his door. She raised her fingers to knock, then tried the handle.
Locked.
Her breath caught for a moment, though she forced herself to steady. She leaned her forehead lightly against the wood.
"Aaron?" she called, her voice low, careful.
No answer.
She tried again, softer. "Sweetheart… it's me."
Still nothing. Catherine lingered there a few seconds longer, straining for the sound of movement on the other side. But the silence stretched, and the lock between them suddenly felt heavier than its weight.
He must be ignoring her.
A pang cut through her chest, sharper than she expected. She straightened, cradling the cup to keep her hands busy. The rational part of her whispered that he was tired, that he might simply be asleep. But another voice, smaller and aching, told her it was something else. That maybe he couldn't stand the way she and David kept trying to pass this off as normal, when it so clearly wasn't.
She swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in her eyes. Turning from the door, she made her way back down the hall, steps light but heavy all the same.
When she reached the kitchen, David was hunched over the counter, flipping through notes, his face set in lines of exhaustion. Catherine set the cup down a little too firmly, the sound drawing his eyes up.
"We need to talk," she said quietly.
David looked up, eyes weary, fingers still poised on the edge of the notebook. "What is it?"
Catherine didn't answer right away. She stood there for a moment, letting the silence fill the space between them, before finally exhaling and lowering herself into the chair opposite him.
"The door's locked," she said softly. "He didn't answer."
David's brow furrowed. "He's probably sleeping."
"Maybe." She rubbed her palms together slowly, gaze distant. "But I don't think so. I think he just… doesn't want to talk to us."
He frowned, glancing down at the scrawled data sheets in front of him — graphs, notes, meaningless numbers in this moment. "Can you blame him?"
Her shoulders slumped. "No."
They sat like that for a while, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound between them. The silence wasn't comfortable, just familiar — like a wound they'd both stopped trying to close.
Finally, Catherine spoke again, her voice cracking at the edges. "We keep acting like this is normal. Like if we just smile enough, it'll fix itself. But every time I look at him…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "It's like I don't even know what to say anymore."
David pressed his hands against his face, elbows braced on the counter. "What would you have me do, Cath?" he muttered. "He needs stability. Routine. If we break down, he will too."
"Maybe," she said quietly. "Or maybe he just needs to see that we're scared too. That it's okay to be."
Her words hung in the air — heavy, fragile. David didn't respond. He only stared at the table, the lines of his face drawn tight, the guilt plain in his eyes.
Catherine's voice softened. "He's our son, David. Not your project. Not a mistake to correct."
His head lifted at that, eyes sharp for a heartbeat — then dimming again. "I know that."
But even as he said it, neither of them sounded convinced.
Outside, the wind brushed faintly against the windows, stirring the curtains. The house felt too big, too quiet.
Catherine reached across the table, setting her hand lightly over his. For a long while, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, two parents holding onto the faint shape of something that used to be whole.
Upstairs, behind a locked door, Aaron slept on — curled and still, the glow from his tail faint beneath the covers.
And though all three of them were under the same roof, they had never felt further apart.