#but being so visibly hurt that agatha keeps punishing herself

[haenels]

the way rio just takes agatha's hits and projection of guilt because she is the only person in the world who can truly understand the depths of agatha's grief and despair because SHE lost nicky too

[beauttifullife]

Tick Tock

"Okay," the other Agatha said, stepping back but keeping a close eye on Rio, her concern still lingering. She offered a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You fix up Nicky, and I’ll make you a plate.”

As she turned toward the kitchen, the familiar sound of her footsteps echoed softly through the room, but she paused midway, glancing over her shoulder with playful sternness.

“And you're eating your vegetables.” She raised an eyebrow, her voice carrying that teasing tone, laced with the authority only a partner could wield. “Your son is starting to pick up your bad habits, and I won’t have it.”

Agatha, still standing in the shadow of the room, watched as the other version of herself raised her brow, as if daring Rio to argue, as if they were back in a time when things were still light and easy between them.

“You might not need to eat,” the other Agatha added with a smirk, “but he does, and you need to suck it up for his benefit.”

Rio managed a weak, fragile smile, a ghost of the old familiarity passing between them. But Agatha, standing just out of reach in the shadows, saw the tremor in Rio’s hands, the way she swallowed hard, barely holding back the storm of emotion threatening to spill over. The tension in her posture was unmistakable, her body taut with the weight of what she was trying to control.

The playful exchange between them—the warmth, the ease—felt like a brittle echo of the life they had once built together, now shattered and scattered, pieces they could no longer put back in place. Agatha’s chest tightened painfully as she watched the other Agatha retreat into the kitchen, leaving Rio standing alone, still trying to hold herself steady.

And then Rio’s gaze snapped downward, her body freezing as she looked down at Nicholas, who had quietly taken her hand in his. His tiny fingers wrapped around hers, holding on with innocent trust, and he looked up at her, his wide eyes filled with the same light he always had, oblivious to the weight hanging between his mothers.

“It’s squash,” he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste, as if to warn her. His voice was soft, and for a brief second, Rio’s expression softened, a flicker of normalcy in the midst of their brokenness. But then he coughed—again—and Rio flinched, visibly shaken by the sound, her composure cracking just a little more.

Nicholas tugged at her hand, pulling it toward his small chest.

“It hurts here, Mama,” he whispered, his voice so small, so fragile. His eyes searched hers for comfort, unaware of the devastation his words caused.

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Rio’s face crumple, the last of her strength giving way beneath the weight of Nicholas’s innocent words, his desperate plea for comfort. It was too much. Agatha could see Rio’s composure unraveling in real-time, her trembling hand now shaking violently as her fingers shook against his chest, trying—failing—to hold herself together, trying to be the mother she once was when everything inside her was breaking apart.

And then, in an instant, Rio ripped her hand away, as if his touch had seared her skin. She stared down at Nicholas, the conflict in her eyes unbearable—grief, fear, rage, helplessness—all swirling beneath the surface. The tears she had fought to contain finally broke free, spilling down her cheeks, and she shook her head violently, as though refusing to let herself feel this again.

“I cannot do this again!” Rio’s voice cracked, her words venomous and raw, a mixture of fury and desperation. Her gaze flicked toward Agatha, locking on her like a blade, more tears streaming down her face as she wiped at them angrily, as if punishing herself for being weak enough to let them fall.

Her voice, trembling and jagged, hung in the air as she whipped around, her grief and anger pouring out of her in a flood of uncontrollable emotion. She ripped the door open and slammed it shut behind her with a force that reverberated through the entire house, the sound echoing like a final blow, a punctuation mark on her breaking point.

Agatha stared at the door, her heart shattering into pieces she couldn’t gather. The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder, deafening, each second pressing down on her, a cruel reminder of what they were running out of—time.

Tick tock. Tick tock.