Think This Through

Derrick

Mike comes back in just after midnight.

I don’t look up right away. I’m standing at the kitchen counter, hands flat against the surface, breathing through the noise in my head. The news is still playing on my phone. Community service. Six months. Like Jay’s life was a minor inconvenience.

“He’s fine,” Mike says quietly. “Still no memory. Doctor says that part might never come back.”

Good.

Bad.

Both.

“What are you planning?” he asks.

I turn slowly. His eyes flick to the counter. I don’t follow his gaze.

“Don’t,” I say.

The room goes silent.

“You’re angry,” he says carefully. “I get it. But this—this isn’t thinking. This is reacting.”

“You sound like him,” I snap. “Like Uncle Ted.”

Mike stiffens. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me choose.”

I step closer. Lower my voice. “You won’t. Family is family.”

He swallows. “And family tells you the truth. If you cross a line, if the cops even suspect you—or if Ted finds out—you disappear. No visits. No access. No Jay.”

That lands.

I look away.

“He needs someone watching him,” Mike continues. “Someone clean. Someone invisible. You can’t do that if you ruin everything.”

“What about the people who hurt him?” I ask. My hands are shaking now. “They walk free.”

“They’re not free,” Mike says. “They’re watched.”

I laugh, sharp and humorless. “That’s supposed to be enough?”

“No,” he says. “But it’s a start.”

He hesitates, then adds, softer, “And you have to stop going into his room at night. You’re not as careful as you think. He’ll notice. Or someone else will.”

I close my eyes.

When I open them again, I nod once. Controlled. Measured.

“Fine,” I say. “We wait.”

Mike exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He turns to leave, then pauses. “You’ll meet him soon. Properly. I’ll make it happen.”

I watch the door close behind him.

Waiting has never been my strength.

But for Jay—I can learn.Mike leaves the door unlocked on purpose.

He always does when he wants me to calm down.

I wait until his footsteps fade before I open the sketchbook.

The page is already half full. Faces in graphite. Not perfect, but close enough. I don’t need names—I remember them by posture, by how they stand when they think no one’s looking. The tilt of a chin. The way confidence leaks out when there are enough people around to hide behind.

I shade carefully. Too much pressure snaps the pencil.

Art has rules. Violence doesn’t.

That’s why I draw.

I flip the page. Another face. Another memory pulled from a screen I’ve watched too many times. I don’t draw what they did. I draw what they look like when they think they’ve gotten away with it.

Community service.

I press the pencil harder this time.

Mike was right. That part irritates me most. He’s been right more often lately, like he’s grown into something steadier while I wasn’t paying attention.

Jay needs me.

Not like this. Not ruined.

I close the sketchbook and stand, shrugging into my jacket. The night air is sharp, clean. It helps. Keeps things orderly in my head.

I don’t follow them closely.

That’s important.

I don’t need proximity. I just need patterns.

They’re predictable—coffee shop, bus stop, corner store. Loud when they’re together. Smaller when they’re alone. I keep my distance, let crowds swallow me, let reflections do the watching for me. Store windows. Car doors. Glass I can disappear into.

I never speak.

That’s the point.

Being seen is louder than confrontation. Being noticed without explanation gets under the skin. I let them feel it—the pause mid-laugh, the glance over a shoulder, the moment when certainty cracks.

Good.

That’s enough.

Mike’s voice repeats in my head, unwelcome but necessary: If you cross a line, you lose him.

Jay in a hospital bed. Jay blinking at a ceiling he doesn’t recognize. Jay asking questions no one can answer.

I turn away before my hands curl into fists.

Later, back home, the kitchen light is still on. Mike sits at the table, jacket off, watching me like he’s been counting minutes.

“You went out,” he says.

“I came back,” I reply.

He exhales. “That’s progress.”

He notices the sketchbook under my arm. Doesn’t ask to see it. Smart.

“He’s okay,” Mike says instead. “Still healing. Still confused. Still Jay.”

Something in my chest loosens at that.

“Any memory?” I ask.

“No.”

I nod once. File it away.

Mike stands. “You need to hear this again,” he says. “If you do something that can’t be undone—if Ted finds out, if the cops even guess—you disappear. And Jay loses the one person who actually watches.”

I step closer. “He’s mine.”

Mike doesn’t flinch. “Then act like it.”

Silence stretches between us.

Finally, he adds, quieter, “And stop going into his room at night. You’re careful, but not invisible.”

That one stings.

“I won’t wake him,” I say.

“That’s not the point.”

I turn away before he can say more.

Waiting is harder than action. It always has been. But I can wait. I’ve been doing it longer than anyone realizes—watching Jay from a distance, from crowds, from places he never noticed.

Soon, I’ll meet him properly.

Not as a shadow. Not as a mistake.

As someone safe.

I open the sketchbook one last time and close it again, decisive.

Fear is enough for now.

Jay needs me whole.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***