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junedenim · 2 months ago

Text

i am physically sweating.

How To Disappear

he’s not fine

warnings: dad!alex, angst, baby blues, depression(ish), ed(ish), weight loss, a lot of body descriptions

word count: 9k

He was fine. Tired, yes. Of course, he was tired. But he was fine. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Everything was fine. You seemed fine to him too. Exhausted, sure, but managing. The baby seemed fine, peaceful most of the time. That’s what he told himself as well, over and over.

But you knew better.

You were actually fine, or at least as fine as anyone could be with a newborn. The sleepless nights were part of it, but you had adjusted. You’d done your research, prepared for it. Tiredness wasn’t your biggest concern, not anymore. The baby was healthy, and you had grown used to her routine, even found small moments of joy in the haze. You’d even started calling her by the nickname he had chosen, hoping it would help shake him out of this strange fog that had settled over him. Hoping it would bring back the man you knew, the one who had been so eager to become a father, so present in those first few days.

Something had changed.

He was home, technically, but you hardly saw him. He spent most of his time in the room that had quickly become “his space” in the house. He would shut the door behind him, and you never knew what he was doing in there. Writing? Playing guitar? Staring at the wall? You didn’t ask. You were too afraid of what you might disrupt if you did. He would only emerge to check on the baby, poking his head into the nursery, staying just long enough to reassure himself that she was still fine. Then he’d retreat. His absence felt more keenly than when he’d been on tour for months at a time.

The shift had been subtle at first. After the baby was born, he’d been so attentive, so gentle with both of you. But as the days turned into weeks, the distance crept in, invisible at first, but then undeniable. He tuned out, disappearing behind walls you couldn’t see but could definitely feel. And the longer it went on, the more afraid you became to call him out on it, to risk breaking the fragile peace that remained.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, you had convinced him to sit at the table for dinner with you. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was. It had taken a lot of convincing. And now, as the two of you sat across from each other, the normalcy of it felt almost foreign, as if you had to remember what it was like to share a meal together.

He was messing with his fork, absentmindedly pushing food around his plate but never actually eating. By the time your plate was empty, his was still full, though the food had been mashed into an unrecognisable mess. You watched him for a moment, your eyes tracing the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the far-off look that never quite reached you.

“Alex.” you said, your voice gentle but firm.

His head jerked up like he hadn’t realised you were still there, as if he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone at the table. “Yeah?” His eyes met yours for a brief second before flickering away, settling somewhere over your shoulder.

You frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” he said, almost too quickly, grabbing his fork and finally taking a bite of the untouched food in front of him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He chewed mechanically, as if he could prove his point by going through the motions. But you weren’t buying it. You could see through the facade, the thin layer of “fine” that he’d wrapped himself in. You said his name again, quieter this time, but with more weight behind it. “Alex.”

He shifted uncomfortably, stabbing his fork into the plate a little harder than necessary. “What?” His tone was defensive, his eyes darting back to you. For a second, his expression seemed to waver, like he was on the verge of acknowledging something. But then, just as quickly, the wall went back up.

You stared at him, heart heavy, wondering how he could think you wouldn’t notice. How he could think you were blind to this unravelling. He couldn’t be that oblivious, could he? You swallowed, the silence between you growing louder with every passing second.

But he didn’t say anything more. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he went back to pushing the food around on his plate, pretending like nothing was wrong, pretending like this was normal.

But it wasn’t. And you both knew it.

You watched him for a long moment, your stomach twisting in knots at the sight of him. He was staring down at his plate like it was some unsolvable puzzle, his fingers playing absently with the fork, tracing circles through the mashed-up remnants of dinner. It was heartbreaking, really, how much effort he seemed to be putting into pretending everything was normal.

“Alex?” you said again, the weight of his name hanging between you like a question neither of you were brave enough to answer. He didn’t respond right away, didn’t even look up, and the silence felt suffocating. “Are you going to eat?” you asked, gentler this time, but firm. You were tired of skirting around it. Tired of pretending not to notice how he was fading away in front of you.

His fork stopped mid-motion, hovering above the plate for a second before he sighed and dropped it with a soft clatter. His fingers flexed, gripping the edge of the table as if he was grounding himself, holding onto something solid in this moment when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

“Yeah, I-” he mumbled, still not meeting your eyes. “I’ll eat…just…later.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. “No, you won’t.” you said quietly, but with certainty. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a truth you had watched unfold day after day, night after night. He’d been promising “later” for weeks now, but later never came.

“I will.” he repeated, but it sounded hollow, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. His voice was tired, strained, like every word cost him something.

You shook your head slightly, your heart aching as you looked at him. “Alex, you never eat.”

“Yes, I do.” he said too quickly, his eyes finally snapping up to meet yours, defensive. His brows knitted together, his jaw tight as if he were preparing for an argument he didn’t really have the strength to fight.

“No, you don’t, Alex.” You could feel the tension in the air growing, but you couldn’t keep letting him pretend this was normal. That everything was okay when it wasn’t.

He let out a sharp breath, one hand moving to rub at his face, fingers dragging down his cheek before falling limply to his side. His skin was pale, and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. The way he sat, hunched and small, made him look smaller than ever. “Don’t mistake me for our baby, please.” he muttered, his voice bitter, but the bitterness wasn’t directed at you. It was directed at himself, at the situation. He didn’t want to be like this, you knew that. But he didn’t know how to pull himself out of it.

The words stung, even though you knew they weren’t meant to hurt. You felt the weight of them settle in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable. But you didn’t flinch. You just watched him for a moment longer, seeing the exhaustion, the frustration, the pain etched in every line of his face.

After a few beats of silence, you spoke again, “Are you okay?”

His hand, which had been resting on the edge of the table, clenched again before he shoved it into his lap. He didn’t meet your eyes. “I’m just not hungry right now.” he said quietly, knowing full well that wasn’t really the question you were asking. His words felt like an avoidance, an excuse.

You sighed, watching him closely as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh like he was already half out the door. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, the sudden movement making the tension in the room feel that much heavier.

You took a slow breath, gathering your thoughts. “Alex, that’s not what this is about.” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m just…worried about you.”

He shook his head slightly, rubbing at his temples now, his eyes closing as if the conversation was too much for him. “Why?” he asked, though his tone wasn’t accusatory. It was genuinely confused, like he didn’t understand why you’d be worried about him at all.

“Because…” you started, but your throat tightened with emotion. You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts, your hands trembling slightly as they rested on the table. “Because you never sleep. You never eat.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to brush it off, but you didn’t let him. “I sleep.” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. The dark strands fell back into place, dishevelled, unkempt. “I just…I wake up when she cries. That’s all.”

“No, no.” you said softly, shaking your head. “Don’t use her as your excuse. You don’t sleep. Not really.” You could feel your heart racing, the words spilling out faster now. “You just lie there, awake. I feel you. I know you don’t sleep.”

He blinked, caught off guard by how direct you were being. For a moment, he looked at you like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He just let his eyes fall back to the table, his hands gripping the edge harder, his knuckles white.

“And you don’t eat.” you continued, your voice quieter now, but no less serious. “You’re so thin, Alex. You’re fading away.”

His eyes flicked down at himself almost instinctively, and for a brief second, you saw the acknowledgment in his expression. He looked at his arms, his chest, as if he hadn’t really noticed before. His clothes hung a little looser, and his skin was paler than you remembered. His body had become a reflection of everything he was holding inside which he refused to acknowledge.

But then he looked back at you, and the wall came back up. “I’m fine.” he said quietly, but there was something hollow in the way he said it. You both knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t fine. Not even close.

“Alex…” you whispered, but he turned away again. His movements were jerky, like he needed to get away from this conversation before it cracked him open completely.

“I’m gonna…take a shower.” he mumbled, already turning toward the door. His voice was strained, almost apologetic, like he knew he was running away from you but couldn’t stop himself.

Your heart sank as you watched him retreat. You hated the way he was pulling away, the way he kept disappearing behind walls you couldn’t break down. And you were scared that if you let him go now, you’d lose him a little more.

“Alex, please.” you called out, your voice catching on the words. He paused in the doorway, his back to you. “Please don’t leave now.”

There was a long, tense silence before he finally turned back around, his shoulders slumped like he was carrying the weight of the world. Sometimes it felt like he was. He walked slowly back to the table, stopping just in front of you. This time, instead of sitting, he leaned over the table, his arms braced against the edge, his face inches from yours. His eyes were tired, so incredibly tired, and there was something in them that made your heart ache.

“I’m here.” he said softly. “I’m here all day, all night. I take care of her, don’t I? I wake up…I change her…I hold her when she cries. I’m here-”

“I know.” you said, cutting him off gently before he could continue. “I know you’re here, but that’s not what I mean.”

He stared at you, confusion flickering in his tired eyes. “What are you saying, then?” His voice was a little sharper now, frustration creeping in.

“I’m saying…you’re not here.” you explained, your voice trembling slightly. “Not with me. Not with her. You’re in the house, but you’re not with us.”

He blinked, trying to understand, but the wall between you was still there. He shook his head slowly, rubbing his temples again. “I don’t…I don’t get it. I’m here, every day.”

“I know.” you repeated, your voice soft, but urgent. “But I’m worried about you, Alex. Because you’re not okay. You’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, and I’m scared for you. I’m scared that you’re disappearing.”

“I’m not disappearing anywhere.” he muttered, but his voice wavered. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” you said gently. “You’re not fine. And that’s okay, but you have to stop pretending. You have to let me in.”

His eyes flickered again, the cracks in his facade becoming more visible. For a moment, it looked like he might finally say something, might finally let you in. But instead, he straightened up, pulling back from the table, distancing himself again.

“I’m gonna take a shower.” he repeated, his voice barely audible as he turned away.

You watched him walk down the hallway, your heart heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. You knew a shower wouldn’t wash away the distance between you or anything for that matter. It wouldn’t fix what was broken.

Alex shut the bathroom door behind him with a quiet click, the sound too soft to match the storm building inside him. The room was dimly lit, the pale glow from the overhead light casting faint shadows on the tiled floor, and for a moment, he just stood there. Stood still. The silence was heavy, pressing down on him, his thoughts racing but going nowhere at the same time.

He stepped in front of the mirror, not looking at it just yet. Instead, his hands came up to the hem of his worn, threadbare t-shirt, hesitating for a second before pulling it over his head. He let it fall to the floor beside him, almost as if it had burned his fingers.

Finally, his eyes lifted to his reflection.

Your words echoed in his mind — You never eat, you’re so thin, Alex — and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to see what you saw. He didn’t want to, not really, but there was no avoiding it now. His body in the mirror was…unfamiliar. His shoulders hunched forward, his collarbone more pronounced than it used to be, sharp against the hollow of his neck. His chest had lost the softness it once had, and now, the lines of his ribs peeked through his pale skin, each bone visible with every shallow breath he took.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and he found himself moving closer to the mirror, like being closer would make it clearer, make it real. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into place as if mocking the chaos he felt inside.

His eyes trailed down the length of his torso, his fingertips hovering just above his skin but not quite touching. His stomach appeared sunken in, the skin tight over his hip bones. His hips…God, his hips jutted out in a way they never had before. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to look like this.

His fingers finally made contact with his skin, lightly tracing the sharp line of his ribs, testing the way they felt beneath his touch. It felt alien, this body he barely recognized. It reminded him of when he was a teenager, lanky and scrawny, back when he hadn’t yet grown into his body. But this was different. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He wasn’t some kid. He was supposed to be a grown man. A father.

He swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat almost painful. The more he looked, the more he couldn’t unsee. His hand moved lower, brushing over his stomach, thin, too thin, almost like his skin stretched tight over bone. His fingers traced the edges of his hips, the sharp angles unfamiliar, wrong. His palms flattened against his sides, as if trying to push everything back into place, but nothing moved. Nothing changed.

You were right. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. You were right, and I hate that you were right.

But he didn’t hate you for saying it. No, he could never hate you for caring, for seeing what he refused to see. He hated that what you said was true. Hated that he had let it get this bad. That it had taken your words for him to finally face what he had been avoiding for weeks, maybe months. He hated himself for not being able to stop it, for letting himself wither away while pretending everything was fine.

His breath came faster now, shallow and uneven as he tore his gaze away from the mirror, unable to bear it any longer. His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button in a hurried, almost frantic way. He needed them off, needed to feel like he could breathe, like he wasn’t being suffocated by the weight of his own skin.

He shoved his jeans down, kicking them off along with his boxers, the clothes pooling at his feet. And then he stood there, naked and exposed, more vulnerable than he had felt in a long time. His eyes flickered back to the mirror, and he stared at himself again, this time seeing more than just the sharp angles and hollow spaces. He saw the exhaustion written all over his body. The way his shoulders slumped, the bags under his eyes, the way his arms hung limply at his sides.

His hands ran over his chest, down to his stomach, pressing lightly against the skin, as if he could somehow fix it. His fingertips traced the grooves between his ribs again, and his breath hitched, a sharp reminder of how fragile he felt beneath it all. His body felt…hollow. Weaker than it should. Every touch of his own fingers felt foreign, like he was touching someone else entirely, someone who wasn’t him.

He stared harder, forcing himself to see everything he’d been avoiding. The lines of his legs looked too long, too thin. His thighs, once strong, were now narrower than he remembered, and there was no avoiding it anymore. He was wasting away.

His chest heaved as he took a shaky breath, his heart racing beneath the cage of his ribs. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, trying to will away the ache in his chest, the heaviness pressing down on him. But it didn’t go away.

You never sleep. You never eat. You’re so thin.

Your voice echoed again, louder this time, and it cut through him, leaving him raw and exposed. You had seen this all along. You’d known before he did. He could hear the worry in your voice, the pain that came with it, and now he hated that he was the cause of it.

Opening his eyes again, he looked back at his reflection, his throat tight, his skin buzzing with an uncomfortable, restless energy. He pressed his fingers into his sides harder now, almost as if testing himself, needing to feel something other than this hollow numbness. His hands shook slightly as they moved, brushing over his hips, his thighs, searching for something that wasn’t there. Some semblance of the man he used to be.

But he couldn’t find him. Not in this reflection.

He took a step back from the mirror, his breath coming in shallow gasps now. He felt like he was cracking, piece by piece, and he didn’t know how to stop it. His hands moved to his face, covering his eyes for a moment as he stood there, naked and vulnerable, feeling like a stranger in his own body.

I’m not fine. The admission came slowly, creeping into his thoughts like a cold realisation that settled deep in his bones. He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine for a while now.

But now…now he couldn’t pretend anymore.

With one last glance at the mirror, he turned away, his hands still trembling as he reached for the shower handle. The sound of water rushing from the faucet filled the small bathroom, the steam already starting to rise, but it didn’t bring the comfort he was hoping for. Instead, it felt like another layer of pressure, another reminder of everything he couldn’t fix, of everything that was slipping out of his control.

He stepped into the shower, letting the water cascade over his skin, hoping it would wash away the guilt, the fear, the truth he had been avoiding. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t. Because now, he couldn’t unsee it. He couldn’t unfeel it.

You lay in bed, listening to the soft hum of the water running. It filled the quiet house like white noise, masking the silence you’d come to dread over the last few weeks. The baby stirred faintly in her bassinet beside you, her tiny breath rhythmic and steady. You should’ve felt a sense of calm, with her peaceful and the house quiet, but instead, the silence felt heavy, almost suffocating.

Home wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It used to be warm, full of life, full of him. Now it felt like you were living with a ghost, an Alex-shaped presence that lingered but didn’t really exist in the same way anymore.

When the water stopped, it left an unsettling stillness in its wake. You waited, expecting to hear him step out of the shower, the sound of wet feet padding on the tile, or maybe the creak of the bathroom door opening. But there was nothing.

The minutes ticked by, each one dragging longer than the last. You sat up slowly, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, staring at the hallway that led to the bathroom. There was a knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

“Alex?” you called softly, unsure if he’d even hear you. No answer. The house swallowed your voice.

You stood up and crossed the room, your heart beating a little faster as you approached the bathroom door. “Alex?” you called again, knocking gently, your knuckles barely making a sound on the wood. Still, nothing.

You pressed your ear against the door, trying to hear something, anything. Silence.

Panic surged in your chest as you knocked harder, your voice louder this time. “Alex! Are you okay?”

Inside, he heard you. He heard every word, every knock. The muffled sound of your voice penetrated through the fog of his thoughts, but he didn’t respond right away. He was sitting on the cold tile of the shower, his back against the wall, water dripping from his hair and down his bare skin. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around them. The towel he’d intended to dry himself with lay discarded in a wet heap on the floor just outside the glass door. He was completely bare, the water from the shower still clinging to his skin, goosebumps covering his arms from the cool air. He felt frozen. Paralyzed by a mix of exhaustion, fear, and shame.

Your voice came again, more insistent. “Can I come in?”

He wanted to answer but couldn’t find his voice. His mouth opened, and a quiet “yes” slipped out, so soft it barely reached his own ears. He cleared his throat, forcing the word out louder. “Yeah…come in.”

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside. The warm steam from the shower still lingered in the air, making the room feel even smaller. You looked around, your heart sinking when you didn’t see him standing by the sink or drying off. Then your eyes drifted to the shower, and through the fogged glass, you saw him, sitting on the floor, huddled, his back against the tile, his body stark and exposed.

“Alex…” you whispered, stepping closer, your heart breaking at the sight of him. He looked so vulnerable, so fragile in a way that terrified you. His skin was almost ghostly under the bathroom lights. His hair clung to his forehead, wet strands sticking to his face, and his knees were drawn up tight to his chest, his arms hugging them like they were the only thing keeping him together.

This was the most of him you’d seen in weeks. He looked almost fragile, in a way that made your heart ache. You realised how much of him was disappearing right in front of you.

Your mind flashed back to the last time you’d seen him shirtless. A couple of weeks ago, maybe. He’d been trying to do the skin-to-skin bonding thing with the baby, holding her against his chest, having read somewhere that it would be good for both of them. He’d been so earnest about it, so hopeful that it would help him connect, help him feel more present. But after a few tries, he’d given up. He’d told you it wasn’t working, that it wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do. And then…he’d retreated. Just like this.

You opened the glass door slowly, the hinge making a soft squeak as it moved. He didn’t flinch or move. His head was resting against the tile behind him, his eyes staring blankly ahead, as if he didn’t quite register your presence yet.

“Al?” you said again, kneeling down beside the shower, your voice soft but laced with concern. The cool tile pressed against your knees as you leaned in closer, your hand hovering near his arm but not quite touching him yet. You didn’t want to startle him. “Talk to me. Please. What’s going on?”

His eyes flickered to yours for the briefest second, but the connection was fleeting. His gaze dropped again, falling back to his knees as though he couldn’t bear to hold your eyes for too long. He took a shaky breath, his lips parting, but the words came slowly, like they were caught somewhere deep inside him.

“I...I don't know.” he muttered, his voice raspy and raw, barely louder than a whisper. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You could see it in the way his hands gripped his own legs, his fingers trembling slightly, his knuckles stark white from the pressure. His body seemed like a stranger’s, angular and frail in ways that frightened you. He was always thin, but this...this was different. You’d never seen him like this, so...depleted.

“I...I don’t sleep.” he continued, his voice breaking, the words spilling out like they’d been bottled up for too long. “I try, but I just...I just can’t. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like...it’s like I’m drowning or something. And I’m so tired-” His voice cracked on the last word, and he swallowed hard again. “But I can’t stop. My mind...it just keeps going, and I don’t know how to make it stop.”

His hands twitched, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on his knee, as though the movement could somehow ground him, keep him tethered to something real.

“Every time I look in the mirror...I don’t know who I’m seeing anymore.” he whispered, his voice so quiet it nearly broke your heart. “I...I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know why I can’t...why I can’t just be normal. I just-” He stopped abruptly, his voice catching in his throat, and you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes as his breath hitched. “I don’t know how to be anymore. I’m trying, I swear I’m trying to be here, to be good for you, for her, but...but I just...I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Alex…” you whispered, your hand finally moving to rest gently on his arm. His skin was cool under your touch, and you could feel the faint tremor in his muscles. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He shook his head, the wet strands of his hair falling into his face, sticking to his forehead. "I feel like I’m...I’m failing.” he stammered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Like...like I’m not enough. Not for you, not for her. I- I keep trying, but I feel like no matter what I do, it’s not...it’s not enough.”

His hands were trembling more visibly now, his breath coming quicker, more uneven. His lips pressed together in a thin line as though he was fighting to keep himself from falling apart completely.

“I look at her...at her little face.” he continued. “And I want to feel something...anything. But I just...I don’t feel it. I look at her, and I don’t feel what I’m supposed to. What kind of father doesn’t feel anything? What kind of person am I if I can’t even-” His voice broke again, and he let out a frustrated, shaky breath. “What if...what if I never feel it?”

“Hey.” you said softly, the weight of his words sinking into your chest like lead. You scooted closer, your hand sliding down to his wrist, feeling his pulse beating frantically beneath his skin. “You’re not failing. You’re doing the best you can, okay? And...and sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

His breath hitched again, and he shook his head, as though trying to shake the thoughts away, but they clung to him like shadows.

“I don’t eat,” he muttered, “I don’t sleep. I- God, I can’t even hold her without feeling like I’m gonna...I’m gonna drop her. I’m so fucking-…and I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I don’t know who I am.”

The frustration in his voice was palpable now, the tremble in his hands growing worse as he spoke. His eyes darted to his reflection in the glass of the shower door, and he let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humour. “Look at me.” he muttered. “Just...just look at me. I look like…”

He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face, but it just fell forward again, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide and glassy as though he couldn’t quite process everything he was saying.

“I used to feel...I used to feel like I knew who I was, but now...now I don’t know anymore.” he admitted, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to be this person- this...this father, this...I feel like I’m drowning and I don’t know how to swim or something.”

“Alex, look at me.” you said, your hand tightening around his wrist. “You’re not drowning. I’m here. I’m right here with you. You’re not alone in this.”

He blinked rapidly, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. “I don’t...I don’t know how to stop.” he whispered, his voice so small, so fragile. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

You shifted closer to him, your free hand moving to cup the side of his face. His skin was cold and damp under your palm, but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a brief moment as though he was seeking some kind of relief, some kind of solace in your presence.

“We’ll figure it out.” you whispered, your thumb brushing softly over his cheekbone. “We’ll figure this out together. You don’t have to do this on your own.”

He opened his eyes again, meeting yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability there took your breath away. He looked lost, so lost, and it hurt you to see him like this, to see him so weighed down by his own thoughts, his own fears.

“I just don’t want you to hate me.” he admitted, his voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t want you to think I’m...I’m broken or something. I don’t want her to grow up and think her dad didn’t love her.”

Your heart ached at the rawness of his confession. “I could never hate you, Alex. And she’s never going to think that. You love her. I know you do, even if it doesn’t feel the way you expect it to right now. That’s okay.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I don’t want to be like this anymore.” he whispered, his voice so soft, so full of pain. “I just...I want to feel normal again.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, your hands cradling his face. “You will. We’ll get through this.”

You felt the tension in his body slowly start to ease, the rigid lines of his frame softening just a little as he allowed himself to lean into you, to take comfort in your presence. His breath was still shaky, his hands trembling, but for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t pulling away.

“I’m scared.” he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

“I know.” you whispered back, your throat tight. You could feel the lump rising, threatening to choke you as you looked at him. Really looked at him. The toll it had taken on him was undeniable now, physically, emotionally, every part of him seemed weighed down by an invisible force that you couldn’t touch.

“I don’t want to be like this.” he whispered again. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” He glanced away, ashamed, his hands pulling back to shield himself, even though he didn’t have the strength to keep up the charade anymore.

You shifted closer, moving carefully onto the edge of the shower, the cold tile biting into your legs. Reaching out, you gently took his hand. His fingers were ice-cold, his grip weak and uncertain, but he didn’t pull away this time. He held on, as if you were his last tether to something real.

“I don’t care what you look like, Alex.”

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though your words were almost too much for him. He stayed silent, struggling to find the words, before speaking again, so softly you had to strain to hear him.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.” he muttered, his fingers tracing aimless shapes against the tile beneath him.

“I know.” you whispered, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s quite terrifying.” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to be a dad.” His voice wavered as he let out a breath. “I feel inadequate…for feeling like this.” he murmured, his hand slipping from yours. “Like I have the nerve to feel like this. I shouldn’t- I don’t have the right to feel this way. You’re the one doing all of this right, and I’m just-” he hesitated, his throat tightening with emotion, “I’m a failure. I can’t even be there for you the way I should.”

The room seemed impossibly still. You could see the weight of his expectations pressing down on him, the pressure he put on himself to be perfect, to live up to some ideal he couldn’t even define.

“I didn’t even have to do anything.” he continued, his voice cracking. “All I needed to do was be there for you. Just be someone you could rely on. And I can’t even manage that.”

“Alex…” you started, but he shook his head.

“No.” he said, voice stronger now. “You’re doing everything, and all I had to do was- was be there. Just be there for you. But I can’t even do that right.”

“You’re not a failure.” you said. “You’re allowed to feel this way. It doesn’t make you weak or inadequate. It makes you human.”

He let out a short, humourless laugh, but the tears in his eyes told you it was anything but funny to him. “Human, maybe. But not good enough.” He wiped at his face roughly, as if angry with himself for even letting those tears show.

“You are good enough.” you whispered, moving closer to him, the warmth of your body brushing against his. “You’re not a failure.” you repeated, trying to break through the wall of doubt he’d built around himself. “You’re not. It’s okay to feel this way, Alex. It’s okay to be scared.”

He shook his head, his lips tightening into a thin line as if trying to hold back everything he was feeling. “But it’s not, though.” he argued softly. “It’s not okay. I shouldn’t feel like this when you’re the one who’s doing everything. You’re carrying the weight, and I’m just…falling apart.”

“You’re not falling apart. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. This isn’t easy, for either of us. But you are here. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have all the answers.”

“But I feel like I should.” he whispered. “I should be able to handle this. I should be able to be strong for you. And I can’t. I’m not.”

You scooted closer, pressing your forehead to his, the warmth of your breath mingling with his. “You’re strong, Alex. You’re stronger than you realise.”

For a moment, he was silent, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on the floor, as if he were searching for the right words to say. Then, almost hesitantly, he squeezed your hand back into his, the grip tighter than before.

“I just… I don’t want to let you down.” he whispered faintly.

“You’re not letting me down.” you reassured him softly, your thumb brushing gently over the back of his hand. “You never have. And you won’t.”

“I just wish I could believe that,” he admitted.

“I believe it.” you said, pulling him into you, your arms wrapping around him. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breath shaky against your skin. “We’ll get through this, Alex.”

For the first time in weeks, he leaned into you, letting his body finally sag, the fight draining out of him. His arms moved around you weakly, and you pulled him even closer, feeling the cool dampness of his skin against your chest, his back trembling under your touch. He felt so fragile in your arms, like he could break at any moment.

“Come on.” you murmured after a few moments of holding him close. “Let’s get you off the floor, okay? The tile’s freezing.” You tried to coax him up, your hand slipping under his arm, fingers gently tugging, but he resisted immediately, stiffening as if the very idea of moving was too much.

“No.” he mumbled, pulling back from your touch, his body curling tighter into itself. His knees were practically pressed to his chest, his arms a locked cage around his legs. “I don’t want you to see me like this. I can’t.”

“Alex...” you began softly, but he shook his head, more urgently this time, his dark hair falling into his eyes, a shadow over his face.

“I don’t want you to see me like this.” he repeated, voice cracking as he dipped his head down further, hiding his face. “I- I’ve been hiding it. Hiding...this. You don’t need to see it.”

He was usually so composed, so in control. To see him like this, terrified of his own reflection, it made you hurt for him. He was curled up so small, almost disappearing into the cold tiles beneath him, his limbs drawn in like he was trying to disappear entirely, trying to erase himself from the space between you.

“I’ve already seen you. I know you. You don’t need to hide from me.” you reached out, resting your hand on his forearm. You could feel him, cold and clammy under your fingers.

He flinched at your touch, eyes squeezing shut like he was bracing for something — judgement, pity, disappointment. “But I don’t...I don’t look like me anymore.” he muttered. “I look wrong. I feel wrong, feel like I’m disappearing. I don’t know how to stop it.”

You moved your hand to his cheek, gently lifting his chin so he would look at you, but his eyes stayed firmly shut. He was still trying to hide. You sighed, brushing his damp hair out of his face. ”You’re not disappearing, Alex. You’re still here. You’re still you. Maybe you don’t feel like yourself right now, but I see you. I always see you.”

His breath hitched in his throat, a shaky exhale that trembled through his whole body. He didn’t pull away from your touch this time, but he didn’t lean into it either. His eyes remained closed, his brow furrowed with an inner turmoil that was palpable.

“Please, Alex. Just come with me. Stand up with me. You don’t have to say anything, just- just stand up.”

His eyes opened, barely, the dark lashes wet from tears he hadn’t let fall. He looked at you with a kind of quiet desperation, as if he was clinging to the possibility of hope, though it felt foreign to him. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. He just stared, searching your face like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded. The movement was so subtle you almost missed it.

“Okay.” he whispered, his voice fragile.

You stood first, gently pulling him with you. He hesitated, his legs unsteady beneath him, but you kept a firm hold of his hand. It took a few moments for him to plant his feet on the cold tile, and even then, he wobbled, like a newborn deer, unsure of how to hold himself up.

Without a word, you grabbed a towel from the hook and began drying him off, your movements a little rough, but not unkind. You started with his shoulders, rubbing the towel across his skin in brisk strokes, the fabric catching on the droplets of water still clinging to him. His body stiffened slightly at the sensation, but he didn’t pull away. He was too exhausted for that now.

“You’re freezing.” you muttered as you worked your way down his arms, his chest. The coldness of his skin made you pick up the pace, trying to warm him up as quickly as possible. He stood there, eyes closed, head down, his body swaying slightly as you ran the towel over him, drying the moisture from his back and stomach, moving with an efficiency that matched the urgency you felt.

When you reached his waist, you wrapped the towel firmly around his hips, tucking it in so it stayed in place. He let out a shaky breath, one hand gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself, the other still loosely holding onto your arm as though he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

He leaned heavily against you, his arm slung over your shoulders as you guided him out of the bathroom. The cold air hit him as soon as you stepped into the hallway, and he shivered, pulling himself tighter against your side. You could feel how drained he was, how every step seemed to take all the effort he had left. His fingers were still shaking, his breathing uneven and laboured, but he let you lead him. Despite how fragile he seemed, that felt like a small victory.

Once you reached the bedroom, he stopped, standing there for a moment. His hands hovered at his sides, trembling slightly. “I...I want to get dressed now.” he mumbled.

You nodded, trying to be gentle. “Do you want me to help you with that?” you offered, reaching toward the clothes you’d set out for him earlier, something soft and easy.

His reaction was immediate, defensive. “No.” he snapped, his voice sharp. “I’m capable of putting on some fucking clothes.”

His hands balled into fists at his sides. You stilled, not sure what to say. He was still too. You could see the regret flicker across his face almost as soon as the words left his mouth. “I’m sorry.” his voice quieter now, ashamed. “I didn’t mean...I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t respond, just stood there, his shoulders sagging. After a moment, he turned toward the bed and started slipping into the clothes, his movements slow and stiff, like every part of him hurt. You stayed quiet, giving him space as he fumbled with the fabric, pulling the T-shirt over his head and stepping into the sweatpants.

He collapsed onto the mattress as soon as he was done, his body sinking into the sheets. All the energy had drained out of him. His head hit the pillow with a soft thud, and he let out a long, shaky breath. You sat down beside him, brushing your hand through his hair gently, the silence between you thick but comforting enough now, after everything there was to say was said.

He closed his eyes again, but this time, it wasn’t to hide. It was more like he was letting go, surrendering to the exhaustion he’d been fighting for so long.

“I’m sorry.” he mumbled after a moment.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” you replied, your hand still gently stroking his hair, trying to keep him from slipping any further into the despair that had a hold on him.

He was quiet for a long time, his brow furrowed like he was fighting an internal battle. Then he asked it. “How do you do it?”

You blinked, taken aback. “Do what?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat. “How do you...how do you love her like that? So easily. It looks so...effortless, when you do it.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He stared at the ceiling, avoiding your eyes, as if he was ashamed to even ask.

“I think...I love her.” he continued, his voice wavering. “I do. I really do. I just don’t know how to...show it, or- or feel it the way you do.” He trailed off, his voice cracking on the last word, and you could see the tension building in his body again, like he was bracing himself for something.

You waited, giving him space to find his words, to figure out what he was trying to say. After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time, almost like he was afraid of the answer. "Will you...will you hug me?”

You moved to wrap your arms around him, but before you could, a cry pierced the quiet. Her small, desperate wail filled the room, and you felt him tense under your touch. His whole body seemed to curl in on itself, and he buried his face into the pillow, trying to block out the sound, or maybe the world altogether.

“I’ll get her.” you whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before you got up. You crossed the room, lifting her from the bassinet and cradling her to your chest. Her cries softened almost instantly, but she was still restless, her tiny hands clutching at your shirt as she nestled into you.

You returned to the bed, sitting down beside him with her still in your arms. You gently rocked her, and after a few moments, her soft whimpers quieted, her little body relaxing against you. You glanced down at him, his face still buried in the pillow, his shoulders shaking slightly.

“Do you want to hold her?”

He just stayed still, his breath shaky and uneven. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he shifted, rolling onto his back. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale, but he nodded, just barely.

You carefully placed her on his chest, her tiny form resting against him, her head tucked under his chin. His hand came up, almost instinctively, to rub gentle circles on her back, but his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling.

He didn’t look down at her, couldn’t make himself meet her gaze. Not tonight. Not now. But he held her, his hand moving softly, rhythmically, trying to convince himself that he was doing something right. That he was enough.

You nestled in close to him, sliding your hand over his where it rested gently on her tiny back. The weight of his fingers shifted slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb continued its slow, circular motions, as though the action itself was soothing not just her but him, too.

“She reminds me of you.” you whispered.

His eyes flickered, still staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, she looks like me.” he muttered, his voice a little tired and a little flat.

You smiled softly and shook your head. “She does, but that’s not what I meant.”

He blinked, his gaze drifting downwards, though he still didn’t look directly at her. “What do you mean?” His voice was quieter now, more uncertain.

“She reminds me of you in little ways.” you began, feeling the warmth of her tiny body against both of you. “Like how she never sleeps with socks on. Just like you refuse to. No matter how cold it gets.”

A weak chuckle escaped his lips. “I think that’s just a baby thing.”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder, smiling. “I like thinking it’s a you thing.”

His hand paused for a moment on her back, then he let out a long, deep sigh, the tension easing just a little from his shoulders. He turned his head toward you, pressing a soft kiss on top of your hair. It was gentle, barely a touch, but it was full of everything unsaid he couldn’t yet put into words.

You tilted your head up, catching his eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. Neither of you moved, just holding each other’s gaze like you were relearning something familiar, something you thought you might’ve lost.

And then, slowly, you leaned up, closing the space between you. Your lips brushed his, testing the waters. But when he didn’t pull away, you pressed deeper, soft and full of everything you’d been holding in. It wasn’t about passion or heat right now.

His lips moved against yours, gently, almost cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it but needed it all the same. When you finally pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a moment longer.

“I missed that.” you whispered, resting your forehead against his, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours.

He nodded, barely moving, but you could feel it. “Me too.” he murmured.

He lay there quietly for a while, holding the baby on his chest, her little body rising and falling with each breath. His hand, still resting on her back, moved slowly, and you could feel him starting to relax, his muscles losing the tension that had held him so rigid all night. You stayed pressed close to him, your hand resting over his, but now your eyes were focused on his face. There was something shifting in him, something fragile but hopeful, and you watched as he finally, hesitantly, let his gaze drift down toward her.

His breath hitched a little as he looked at her. Really looked at her, maybe for the first time in a while. His free hand slowly came up, trembling just slightly as he reached out. He hesitated, hovering over her cheek, as though afraid he might break something if he touched her. Ever so gently, he let his fingers brush against her soft skin, tracing the curve of her cheek, the softness of her nose, his thumb lightly brushing over her tiny lips. She stirred a bit, making a small noise, and he froze, but when she settled, he let out a soft breath and continued, his eyes never leaving her.

“She’s so small.” he whispered. “I forget how small she is sometimes. I keep thinking she’s…fragile.”

“She’s stronger than she looks.” you said softly, watching the way his face changed as he took her in. “Just like you.”

He shook his head slightly, as if disagreeing with you, but didn’t say anything. His hand kept moving, tracing the shape of her little ears, the delicate arch of her brow. “She has your nose.” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I think she has your eyes, though. When she opens them, sometimes she gives me this look, like she’s thinking deep thoughts, like you.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He let his fingers linger on her cheek a moment longer before finally looking up at you. “I…” He paused, his throat working to spit out the words. “I love you.” His gaze flicked between you and her, like he was trying to say it to both of you at once.

It was the way he said it, the way his voice cracked just a little, the way he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment after the words came out, like it took everything in him to say them. It wasn’t just a simple “I love you.”

Your breath caught for a second, and you squeezed his hand. “I love you too.”

His eyes flickered back down to her, and his hand resumed its slow, gentle movements on her back. “I love her too.” he said, his voice quieter, but filled with the same emotion. “I do. I just...don’t know how to show it yet.”

“She knows.” you whispered, pressing your forehead gently against his. “Even if it doesn’t feel like you’re doing enough, she knows. You’re her dad, Alex. That’s enough.”

He didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly. When his voice broke the silence, he whispered. “I’m going to be better. I promise.”

You squeezed his hand again, resting your head on his shoulder. “You already are.”

a/n: I don’t know what I’m even doing here. It went on way longer than I intended at first but here we are. I don’t know if it makes any sense but I liked writing it. Also can you tell my posts get more depressing when I’m not feeling the best? Lol. Besides the point. I don’t even know why anyone would read it but I’m posting it anyway. Also it made me think of Mr. Turner, a bit. It’s not written with him in mind but I could see him being like this as well. Obviously if you don’t like it just pretend it doesn’t exist and let me live. Sorry.

tags: @st7rnioioss @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @rentsturner @yourstartreatment @avxoxo1 @jqsvi @turnersfav @youresodarkbabe @psychedelicrocker @aacheinthejaw @zayndrider @humbuginmybones @tedioepica

#this was posted right before i left for work and i had to wait all day to read it #but i was well worth the wait #like so good #like unbelievably so #but also sad but in the best way but it’s also hopeful #and i might cry #baby poppy i can’t!!!!!#more more more always #also dad alex

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