Page 82 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

Hayden is crashing. And this time, I don’t think he even realises it.

He’s standing in the kitchen like gravity’s too much effort. Slumped against the counter, one hand braced against it while the other clutches his phone like maybe it’ll tell him how to keep his life from falling apart.

His hair is a mess of curls flattened in odd directions like he didn’t bother showering again today. His eyes—normally sharp, cocky, annoyingly smug—are dull.

Hollowed out.

He looks like a ghost in a house full of life.

And maybe the scariest part? No one else is game to say anything to him.

Millie’s on the couch, cradling Linkin to her chest, gently rocking side to side as if the motion might soothe her frustration along with the infant. Yasmin’s beside her, quiet, but watching. Chase is unusually still, his jaw tight as he fiddles with the TV remote, pretending to be invested in a show none of us are watching.

I think we’re all waiting for Hayden tosnap out of it.

To reappear.

But every second that passes, it feels like we’re losing him to some invisible current he doesn’t know how to swim against.

Millie tries. She really tries. She gives him space, she gives him silence, she gives him every damn ounce of patience she has. But even patience runs out eventually.

“Hayden, can you hold him for a second?” Millie’s voice is tight like she’s forcing calm, even though I can see the storm behind her eyes.

Hayden doesn’t look up right away. He just keeps staring at his screen, thumbs unmoving like her voice didn’t even reach him.

Then, finally, “What?”

Millie exhales. Loud. Sharp. I feel it deep in my bones. “I just need to grab something.”

He hesitates. Long enough that the silence stretches too far.

It breaks something in her. She doesn’t snap. Doesn’t yell. But she shifts the baby in her arms and turns to Yasmin instead, handing him over gently.

“Never mind,” she says with a sigh.

Yasmin takes the baby with a nod, eyes flicking between them with quiet concern.

The air is thick. Not just awkward—but weighted. Like everyone’s afraid to breathe too loud, afraid the wrong word will send Hayden spiralling. Even Chase, usually our class clown and mayhem instigator, doesn’t speak.

But I’m done watching him drown.

I stand. “We need to talk.”

Hayden scoffs, still not looking at me. “Not in the mood.”

“Don’t care.” It’s time to have this conversation because I’m not going to allow him to keep on his downward spiral. He needs help, and he needs to talk about it.

I grab his arm, and he tenses immediately. For a second, I think he’ll swing. But instead, I yank him towards the back door, past the stares, and into the night.

The door clicks shut behind us, and the cool air slams into my skin. It smells like cut grass and the faint smoke from someone’s fireplace down the street.

The second we hit the lawn, he rips his arm from my grip.

“What the hell, Rhys?” he snaps, voice low and seething.

I cross my arms, planting my feet. I’m not backing down. Not tonight.

“You’re screwing this up.”

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