Everything went back to the quiet mode after that.
The refrigerator hums.
The clock in the living room ticks too loudly, as if it has decided time will keep moving whether we are ready or not.
Josh sits back down at the table, elbows resting on the wood Grandma polished every Sunday without fail.
I stay standing, suddenly unsure what posture fits this moment.
There is something unfinished in the air.
Josh picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. Not nervous. Just idle. Like he is killing time before saying something he has already memorized.
"I'm not going back," he says.
The words land softly enough that I almost miss how heavy they are.
"Back where?" I ask, though my chest tightens because I already know.
"College."
I stare at him.
He looks up then. His eyes are steady. Almost challenging. Like he is bracing for impact but refuses to flinch.
"I dropped out."
The sentence sits between us, bare and unapologetic.
"You…" My voice stumbles. I clear my throat. "You dropped out?"
"Last week," he says. "Paperwork's done. Fees refunded. It's official."
I laugh once, sharp and disbelieving.
"Josh, you cannot just decide something like that."
"I can," he says calmly. "And I did."
My thoughts scramble, tripping over each other. Bills. Rent. Rejection emails. The kind of fear that smells like long nights and pretending you are fine.
"What about your degree? Your plans? Mom…"
"Is no longer part of my decision making," he says flatly.
I rub a hand over my face.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is out there? Writing is not some hobby you can just—"
"Fail at?" he offers lightly. "Yeah. I know."
I look at him properly then. Really look.
There is no recklessness in his posture. No wild optimism. Just resolve. The kind that forms quietly, late at night, when no one is watching.
"So what," I say slowly, "you are just going to write?"
"Yes."
"Full time?"
"Yes."
"No backup plan?"
"No."
A laugh escapes me, thin and strained.
"That is insane."
Josh smiles faintly.
"I know."
"You were so close," I say. "You could have finished your degree. You could have kept writing on the side."
"I tried that," he replies. "It felt like lying to myself every morning."
Silence stretches between us.
"And if it does not work?" I ask quietly.
He shrugs.
"Then it does not. But at least it will be my failure."
Something in my chest twists.
I think of all the choices I made because they were sensible. Staying when I wanted to leave. Leaving when staying felt too dangerous. Convincing myself stability was the same thing as safety.
A small, shameful part of me hates him for choosing what I never did.
"You are not even asking what I think," I say.
Josh tilts his head.
"I did not come here for permission."
There it is.
"I came to tell you," he continues. "And to ask if I could do that with you. I mean, the writer's journey. If that is okay."
The ground shifts beneath my feet.
"With me?"
"Yeah," he says. "You have done the city thing. You survived it. You know what it is like to build something from nothing. I figured if I am going to do this, I would rather do it near you than alone."
Guilt slices through me, quick and sharp.
I see him at thirteen, crying into a pillow in a house that was never his, while I chose familiarity and called it responsibility.
"You do not owe me anything," I say.
"I know," he replies. "That is why I am asking."
We sit with that.
Part of me wants to protect him.
Another part wants to shake him until sense falls out.
A quieter part recognizes something terrifyingly familiar in his certainty.
"You are serious," I say.
Josh nods once.
"I have never been more serious about anything."
I sink into the chair opposite him, suddenly exhausted.
"I am scared for you," I admit.
He smiles, soft but real.
"That makes one of us."
Despite myself, I let out a breath.
"You are unbelievable."
"You love me."
"I really do not have a choice, do I?"
"Nope."
The room feels different now. Like the roles have shiftediiv shifted without asking either of us for consent.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The sky has dimmed by the time Dad comes in from the garden.
He smells like soil and evening air, sleeves rolled up, hands rough from work that keeps him busy enough not to think too hard. He stops the moment he steps into the living room, as if the house has moved under his feet.
Josh stands near the doorway, phone in his hand, backpack slung over one shoulder.
For a moment, no one moves.
Dad's face changes slowly. Surprise first. Then something softer and more dangerous. His mouth opens, like he is about to say Josh's name, then closes again. He swallows, straightens his back, and tries to look normal.
"Hey," he says carefully. "You are… you are here."
Josh nods.
"Yeah."
Dad takes a step forward, then stops. His hands hover uselessly at his sides.
"You got taller," Dad says, forcing a smile. "Or maybe I shrunk."
Josh gives a polite half smile that does not reach his eyes.
"Could be either."
Dad laughs softly. The sound fades almost immediately. His gaze lingers on Josh's face, like he is trying to memorize it before it disappears again.
"It is good to see you," Dad says. "Really good."
Josh shifts his weight.
"Mm."
The silence that follows is thick.
I step in instinctively, the way I always do when conversations start to fray.
"He just got in," I say. "Long trip."
Dad nods too eagerly.
"Right. Of course. You must be exhausted."
"I am fine," Josh says.
Dad tries again.
"You hungry? I was thinking of making dinner. Your grandmother used to say it is not really evening until everyone eats together."
He stops himself too late. His voice cracks anyway.
Josh's jaw tightens for a second before smoothing out.
"No thanks. I already ate."
Dad's shoulders sag, just slightly.
"Oh," he says. "Alright. Maybe later."
He nods to himself, like he is agreeing with something no one else said.
Another silence.
"You can sit," I tell Josh. "You do not have to stand there."
"I am good."
Dad glances at the couch, then back at Josh. His eyes shine, and I realize with a quiet jolt that he is trying not to cry.
"I…" Dad exhales. "I am glad you came back."
Josh's expression does not change.
"I did not come back for long."
The words land with dull precision.
Dad flinches.
"I see," he says.
"I just needed to take care of a few things," Josh adds, voice neutral. "That is all."
Dad nods too quickly.
"Of course. You are busy. You always were."
That stings, even to me.
Josh finally looks at him properly. Not angry. Just distant.
"I learned that early."
The room goes still.
Dad rubs his face, the lines around his eyes suddenly deeper.
"I know I was not perfect," he says quietly. "But I tried."
Josh says nothing.
The space between them feels unbridgeable. Not because of hatred. Because of exhaustion.
"I will give you some space," Dad says after a moment.
He turns toward the hallway, pauses, then adds without looking back,
"If you need anything, I am here."
Josh watches him go, unreadable.
When Dad disappears from view, the house exhales.
"You did not have to be that cold," I say.
Josh finally looks tired.
"I was polite," he says. "You want warmth, Ash. I do not have that to give."
"He missed you."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because missing someone does not erase what happened," he says softly. "And I am not pretending anymore."
I have no answer.
Josh adjusts his backpack, already half gone, and something settles heavily in my chest.
Dad reached out.
Josh saw it.
And still chose not to meet him halfway.
Not out of cruelty, but out of self preservation.
Standing between them, trying to hold together a family that no longer fits its own shape, I realize this was never a reunion.
It was a relationship that might never heal.