10. Ozzy #3
He lets out a half-laugh, half-cough, his eyes closing as he chews. The movie plays on, the rain patters against the window, and I wonder—not for the first time—if it’s possible to feel safe in a world where you’ve only ever known survival.
If anyone could make me believe in that possibility again… maybe it’s this dying old man who calls me girlie and lets me steal his cake.
Or maybe it’s his son with the storm-colored eyes and hands built for protection.
But for tonight, I don’t think about the past or the future.
Just the now.
And the fact that I don’t want to be anywhere else.
It’s just after three in the morning when I quietly slip out of Morris’s room, careful not to wake him.
He finally drifted off after the movie and some late-night coughing fits.
I lingered there longer than usual, holding his hand until his breathing evened out; half-afraid that if I moved too soon, he wouldn’t be there when I looked back.
The house is unnervingly still as I pad barefoot down the stairs, clutching the empty tea mug and plate in one hand. My plan is to rinse the dishes and slip back to my room without waking a soul, but as I turn the corner into the kitchen, I stop cold.
Jackson is sitting at the table, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. There’s a bottle of water beside him, unopened. His eyes flick up to me when I enter, and I offer a soft, “Hey” as I walk past him toward the sink.
“How is he?” he asks, his voice low, strained.
It hits me sideways because… he’s never really asked about Morris before. Not like that.
I glance back at him. “Asleep. I got him to eat a few bites of cake.”
His nose scrunches a little. “Shouldn’t he be eating something healthier?”
I dry my hands on a towel, before turning fully to face him, eyebrows lifted. “Jackson… you do realize your dad isn’t coming back from this, right?”
He tenses immediately. His jaw locks like it’s wired shut. “Don’t.”
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” I say gently. “But I need you to understand—my job isn’t to save him. It’s to make sure the ending isn’t agony. I’m here to help him die, Jackson.”
“Stop.” He pushes up from the table so fast the chair screeches across the floor. His eyes are wide, frantic. “Just fucking stop.”
“Jackson,” I say, firmer now, trying to hold his gaze. “You can’t ignore this. You’re acting like you’re going to fix it with duct tape or something, but this?—”
“I said stop!” His voice cracks as he smacks the water bottle off the table. It hits the floor with a loud thud and rolls. My body reacts before my brain does—arms flinching up, instinctively covering my face as my breath stutters out in a sharp gasp.
“Sorry!” I cry out, voice high and panicked.
I’m already moving—heart hammering as I speed-walk out of the kitchen and down the hall to my room, door slamming shut behind me.
I lock it because I have to; because even if it’s Jackson— especially because it’s Jackson—I can’t let someone that close when I’m spiraling.
“Fuck! Ozzy, wait!” I hear him yell, closer now, but the door is shut and the lock is firm.
My heart’s still sprinting in my chest like it wants to crack my ribs open.
I hear his palm hit the door softly, followed by the sound of him slumping down against it.
“I’m so sorry, Tink,” he breathes out as silence stretches between us.
He exhales and it’s so shaky. “Ozzy?” he calls softly, and… goddamn it, he sounds so lost and alone.
I press my body to the door, sliding down until we’re back to back, a thin slab of wood between us. I close my eyes and lean my head back.
“Yeah, Jackson?”
There’s a pause. He clears his throat, but the next words come out jagged anyway.
“I… I didn’t know he was—God, I didn’t know it would be like that. That he’d be so…”
“Small,” I finish for him. “Frail. Hollowed out.” I wrap my arms around my knees. “Cancer’s a thief. It takes everything you have to give, and when you’ve got nothing left, it finds more.”
There’s another quiet breath before he whispers out, “Is he in pain?”
“Yes,” I don’t want to lie to him, but I hate making him feel worse. “The medication helps some, mostly by keeping him asleep. I think he misses everything, though. Betty, Dorothy, you.”
I hear a sharp intake of air come from him. “Fuck.” His voice is so soft and weak, I slide over from the door to the wall while reaching up, unlocking the door, and cracking it open.
“Don’t.” His voice sounds wet, choked. Hearing his sniffle stops me from opening the door any further.
Instead, I reach my hand through the crack and hold it out.
He sniffles again before I feel his strong yet shaking hand grab mine, and we sit there in complete silence.
I feel him squeeze—tight, almost desperate—and I run my thumb slowly across his knuckles.
Back and forth. Again and again. A silent promise that I’m still here, that I’m not letting go. And that he’s not in this alone.
We sit in silence, skin to skin through the sliver of space between us. Breathing in the same moment. Grieving different things, but not alone this time.
And somehow, that tiny touch feels more intimate than any kiss could. Because I know what it took—for both of us—to allow it.
I squeeze back, gently and he holds tighter as he softly sobs into the quiet night.