Running Towards the Light

Chapter 42 - Crashing

Eventually, everyone drifted away.

It wasn't fast, and it wasn't all at once. It was gradual. Quiet. Like a wave slowly being pulling back out to sea.

After Chris's last words, we just sat there, sprawled out in that tangled group hug for a few more minutes, like no one wanted to be the first to let go — because the moment we did, it would all be real. The secrets wouldn't be floating anymore. They'd be settled. Heavy. Permanent.

But one by one, the weight of exhaustion crept in. You could feel it in the way West's eyes lingered on all of us before standing. Or in how Sam gently nudged Ben up, keeping a hand on his shoulder until they were halfway to the stairs. Dylan had already retreated into his own head, barely saying a word as he quietly moved back towards the chair he had been sitting on. Spencer was the last of the twins to move, letting go slowly like he wasn't sure the moment was really over.

Cam hadn't said a word. Not even a glance. He disappeared the second Chris let go of him.

I didn't blame him.

There were too many feelings. Too many truths. We'd all heard the same story, but it meant something different to each of us. It landed in each of our chests in a different shape, with a different kind of burn.

And now, we had to live with it. Because of me.

But I tried to push that last part out of my head.

The house was unusually quiet after that. Not in the peaceful, end-of-the-day kind of way. But the kind that came after something big. That silence that clung to the walls, thick with the weight of what had been said, what couldn't be taken back. You could still feel it pulsing through the hallways, like the very air was holding its breath, unsure of what came next.

I went up to my room without saying much. West gave my arm a squeeze at the top of the stairs. Spencer lingered at my door for a second before giving me a weak smile and mouthing love you, which I tried to return but probably just looked like I was on the verge of crying again.

After that I quickly hurried and shut my door, just standing there.

My room was exactly the same as it had been when I left. Same posters, same blanket tossed on the end of my bed, same socks on the floor I'd forgotten to clean up. But I wasn't the same. None of us were. There was this hollow ache in my chest like something had been cracked open — and maybe it had always been there, maybe I'd just never known where the crack started. But now I know.

And it hurt.

It didn't hurt in a betrayal kind of way. It was deeper. Older. It hurt because it made sense. It hurt because I'd known in my bones that something had always been a little off. Maybe this was a recent thing or maybe I'd known since I was a young kid, afraid of going home. But something was always wrong in our house and not the fact that my family has a lot of kids: that Dylan's distance from us had meaning, that Chris's overprotectiveness wasn't just about birth order — it was about guilt. That the way Mom (or who I thought was my mom, at least) looked at me sometimes felt different from how he looked at Spencer or Sam or any of her biological children now that I was looking back at it. It all fit, and I hated that it did.

I'd barely gotten the chance to sit down before there was a soft knock on my door. Ben.

His eyes were red-rimmed when I opened it, and without a word, he stepped inside. I closed the door behind him checking to make sure no one had seen him come into my room, even though I didn't know why.

I think we both just needed to be with someone who understood.

We didn't say much at first. I let him climb onto my bed, curling up at the foot the way he always does. Ben is a lot more reserved and withheld from the rest of my brothers. He wasn't just going to go jumping all over your bed — he was going to wait to see if you wanted that and if it was appropriate. I think that was one thing I always missed about Ben ... he always did everything for everyone else. Thought of everyone else, before himself. Every time. I sat near my pillows, legs crossed, watching him quietly.