Page 58 of Until Forever Falls

Dylan

Then

The brush glides over the canvas in slow, deliberate strokes, blues and grays merging into waves that still don’t feel quite right. I sit back, cross-legged on the floor, tilting my head to study them. They’re too harsh, awkwardly restless. Not at all what I’m going for, but I don’t know how to fix it yet.

“You’ve been at that for hours,” Brooks says from behind me. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Not really,” I reply, keeping my focus on the painting. “If I stop, I’ll lose my vision.”

He hums in response, and I feel his attention settle on me. I dip my brush into white and swipe a small streak across one of the waves, softening it. Better, but still not there.

“You make it look easy.” Brooks’ voice is closer now. He’s sitting on my bed, leaning back on his hands like he’s always belonged here.

“It’s not, but…thanks for saying that.”

The door creaks open, and Beckett sticks his head in. “Dill, Mom said she’s making tacos. Don’t hole up in here all night or she’ll get pissy,” he warns. His eyes drift to the canvas, his features relaxing as he takes it in. “That’s really good.”

I shift uncomfortably, brushing off the compliment with a shrug. “It’s not finished.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Beckett replies. “It’s still amazing.” He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then jerks his chin toward Brooks. “Make sure she eats, yeah? You know she’ll forget.”

“On it,” Brooks says, giving him a lazy salute. Beckett shakes his head and disappears down the hall, leaving the door cracked open.

Brooks stretches, unfolding himself from the bed as he stands. “He’s right, you know. You’re ridiculously talented.”

I roll my eyes, setting my brush down. “It’s just a hobby, stop it.”

He smirks, crossing to my desk where my sketchbooks are stacked. Instinctively I move to stop him, but he picks up the one on top and flips it open before I can move. “Brooks,” I snap. “Stop—”

He freezes mid-page, his brows drawing together as he turns slowly to face me. My throat tightens as I see it again—the self-portrait I drew after my nightmare weeks ago. My face, my eyes, my pain, all so obviously splayed out on paper.

He lowers his voice. “Is this you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“I—” I look away, my hands balling into fists in my lap. I focus on the smudge of paint on my knuckle, a meaningless detail I can cling to rather than face the real question. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” he presses, his voice cautious now. Like he’s trying his hardest not to scare me away. “What’s this about?”

I want to say I don’t know, but that feels too simple. Idoknow. I just don’t knowhowto say it. No one has ever asked me before—not Beckett, not my mother, not anyone. They always just assume I’m fine. That if I needed help, I would ask for it. And maybe that’s my fault—I made it too easy for them to believe that. But it still stings, the way my mother never questions it, never wonders. Even after she saw the portrait. Like the idea something might actually be wrong has never once crossed her mind.

I’ve molded silence into armor. Speaking it aloud would tear open something savage I buried too deep to reach, and I’m not sure I could ignore it again once it’s out.

“It’s about something that happened…a long time ago,” I say, the confession slipping out in fragments I can’t pull back. The words pull me down with them, dragging me into a place I’ve spent years trying to forget.

Brooks sets the sketchbook aside, steps closer, then sinks down beside me, pulling my gaze to his without a word. That look, his distress—it cracks open the memory, tearing it from the depths of my mind. I’ve buried it for so long, but now it feels inevitable, like letting it surface is the only way to move forward.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the floor beneath me feels unsteady—or maybe it’s just my body, betraying me, barely holding me upright. I can feel the years of suffering pressing in—ready to spill over.

I’m on the edge now, teetering. Maybe it’s time to let it all out. Stop pretending I’m fine.

My chest locks, each breath shallow, like I’m drowning in air. Panic surges through me in frantic spirals, too relentless to outrun.

“Hey, hey, Dylan, look at me.” Brooks’ voice is urgent, laced with worry, but it feels distant—like a sound that’s barely there. “You’re safe. I’m here. I promise.”

When I finally open my eyes, Brooks hasn’t moved.

“I—” My throat is a dry, empty space. The words won’t come. They never have. I’ve never let them. Talking would mean letting someone see what I can’t bear to expose—and I don’t know how to let anyone see the wreck I’ve kept locked inside.

“I can’t,” I manage, tears slipping down my face despite my best efforts to stop them. His eyes are full of sincerity, a kind of care that cuts through my spiraling thoughts. The way he looks at me makes everything inside me feel exposed, vulnerable.

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