Sebastian's POV
At first, I didn't notice it.
Not really. I mean—yeah, she wasn't saying much, but I figured she was just busy. Moms get tired, right? Especially moms like mine, who are basically on Red Bull and sunshine 24/7. I thought maybe she was working on a new campaign. Or maybe arguing with Ray over some fabric choice again.
But then I noticed.
She wasn't just tired.
She was quiet.
The house still smelled like vanilla candles and fresh laundry. My bed was still made every morning. My hoodie from the couch? Folded neatly on my desk. She still cut the crust off my sandwiches like she's done since I was five and still packed those dumb sticky notes in my bag like "You've got this, champ!" with a doodle of a bear in sunglasses.
She did everything.
Except look at me.
She didn't say "Sebby!" when I walked in.
Didn't ask if I drank water.
Didn't tell me about the weird thing Ray said or the new shirt she found for me in some overpriced Paris boutique.
Just… smiled faintly if we crossed paths.
And that hurt more than anything else could have.
Because my mom isn't supposed to be quiet.
She's supposed to be noise and color and chaos.
My chaos.
I didn't even mean what I said. Not really.
I was just tired. Practice sucked. School sucked. College stuff is breathing down my neck and everyone thinks I have it all figured out just because I'm tall and wear designer shoes and can throw a football.
But that doesn't mean I know how to be a person yet.
And she doesn't expect me to be perfect, I know that.
She just loves me. Loudly. All the time. In ways I never asked for but somehow still need like air.
And I told her to shut up.
God. I told her to shut up.
I sat in the kitchen that night, watching her stir something on the stove. Her hair was braided back, a few strands falling loose around her face. She hummed softly to herself. Not even a song. Just noise. The kind that used to fill the house with light.
"Mom—"
She glanced over, polite. Smiled.
Didn't say anything.
And somehow, that smile felt like a goodbye.
I couldn't take it anymore. I left the room and found Ray in the den, scrolling through something on his tablet.
"Can I talk to you?" I asked.
He looked up slowly. Set the tablet down. "About Ava?"
I nodded.
"I messed up."
He didn't say I know. Didn't say You did.
Just looked at me with that unreadable expression he always has when he's trying not to say something he'll regret. "She's not mad, you know."
"Feels like she is."
"She's not," he repeated. "She's just… hurt."
That hit different.
"She didn't yell. She didn't cry in front of me. She still—she still does everything. Why is that worse?"
"Because you know what she sounds like when she loves you," Ray said simply. "And now you know what she sounds like when she's protecting herself."
I sat down next to him. My throat was tight.
"I didn't mean it."
"I know."
"I just… I didn't mean it."
He didn't say anything for a moment. Just leaned back against the couch, eyes toward the ceiling.
"She loves you more than anything," he said eventually. "But she's also a person, Sebastian. A real one. With feelings. And when someone gives that much love and gets silence or anger in return… it breaks something inside."
Silence stretched between us.
I looked toward the kitchen again, where she was humming quietly.
"I want to fix it."
Ray looked at me then, really looked. And for the first time, he didn't look like the cold, unreadable man everyone else saw.
He looked proud.
"Then start by listening."