The Edge of Almost

The smell of coffee is the only thing keeping me upright.

I clutch the mug like it's a life preserver, the heat seeping into my hands and cutting through the early morning chill of the house. Steam curls lazily into the air, mirroring the state of my brain—half-asleep and refusing to come online.

Another shitty night of sleep. I'd spent almost every hour staring at the ceiling, counting cracks in the blotchy paint. Lauren's coughing fits kept echoing in my head, even when she wasn't coughing. There was no escaping it.

And then there's Adrian. Always Adrian.

I keep my eyes fixed on the countertop, avoiding the clock. The idea of Lauren upstairs while he's in the next room makes my chest tighten for some reason I don't have the energy to unpack.

The sound of footsteps stops me mid-sip. I look up as Adrian walks into the kitchen, his movements slow and muted, like he's dragging himself through molasses.

Shit, he looks awful.

Dark circles rim his eyes, and his shoulders slump slightly—barely perceptible, but enough to make him look smaller somehow. Not in size, exactly, but in... presence. I don't think I've ever seen him this drained.

Guess neither of us slept much last night.

His gaze flicks to mine briefly before dropping, and he beelines for the coffee pot without a word.

"Morning," he mutters, voice rough as gravel. He pours himself a cup, his movements automatic. Like he's being wound up and pulled along by invisible strings.

"Morning," I say back softly, my voice cracking slightly. God, is this what we're doing now? Just... existing in strained silence until one of us breaks?

I keep watching him over the rim of my mug. Adrian's face is unreadable, that same poker-faced stoicism he always wears. On anyone else, it might seem calm or reassuring. On him, it feels more like a wall, impossible to scale or see through. A reminder that no matter what's eating him—or what's happening to Lauren—he'll never let anyone in.

A normal person might reach out, offer comfort. A hand on his shoulder, a safe "Hey, you okay?" But I'm not normal, and whatever's built between us doesn't exactly scream safe.

So I will say nothing. Instead, I sip my coffee, trying to gather enough courage to cut the oppressive quiet.
"How's... work?" The words tumble out, hesitant and awkward, as I cling to the easiest, most meaningless topic. Small talk. Great. That'll fix this. Real smooth, Tess.

Adrian doesn't look at me—just keeps staring into his cup like the bitterness holds all the answers.

"It's... intense," he says finally, rubbing the back of his neck. "New case came in yesterday. High-profile. Lots of moving parts. It's going to be a beast. That's why I didn't make it home until late last night, in case that's why you're asking."

A flicker of something sharp crosses his voice near the end. Am I imagining that?

"Oh. Yeah, makes sense," I mutter, dropping my gaze back to my mug. Of course that's why. God, Tess, stop making everything about you.

Still, a small, stupid part of me wonders—was he really working late last night? Or was he just avoiding the house? Avoiding... me?

I pull myself back from the thought with a scowl. Don't be an idiot, Tess. This isn't about you.

The silence between us stretches thin again, taut like a rubber band about to snap. I feel my grip on the coffee mug tighten involuntarily. Say something. Anything. But every word on the tip of my tongue feels like stepping on a minefield.

"Um... if you need anything, you know where to find me," I blurt out suddenly, desperate for an exit. My words land awkwardly, as clunky as the chair leg that scrapes the floor when I push it back a little too hard.

Adrian's head tilts slightly, but he doesn't reply. His silence fuels my nerves.

"I'll, uh, go fold the laundry," I add quickly, words tumbling over each other as I grab my mug and all but bolt from the kitchen.

It's not like I'm running from him. Not really. I know this is a tiny house—I'm bound to keep crossing his path—but every interaction feels like it claws at something raw and exposed inside me.

I turn left into the hallway, muttering under my breath. "Good job, Tess. You're the picture of composure today."
Half an hour later, I'm folding laundry in the guest room, anything to keep my hands busy. Shirts, sheets, socks—all mundane little tasks I keep throwing myself into as though matching socks will heal my sister's illness or make me less of a goddamn failure.

But the more I work, the louder the voice in my head gets.

Why are you even here? You left. You always leave. You think folding clothes is going to make up for that?

I slam a shirt down harder than necessary, then yank two mismatched socks apart like a frustrated toddler.

"Because you're a fuckup, Tess," I mutter to myself, shoving socks into the closest drawer. 

"Always have been. Always will be."

The bitterness in my voice doesn't sting. Not anymore. It's just... the truth.
The house is too small, too still, too suffocating. Maybe I should clean the kitchen too, disinfect the counters Adrian didn't bother wiping down. Or maybe reorganize that godawful stack of mail by the front door.

No. Don't. If I keep pacing these same rooms, I'll implode.

I grab my running shoes instead, yanking them on with too much force. Running always helps. It clears my head, burns the nervous energy, drowns out the noise in my brain. And right now, I need all the drowning I can get.
Outside, the pavement blurs beneath my feet as I push harder and harder. My lungs ache, my calves burn, and sweat drips down my spine—but it's not enough. No matter how fast I go, or how many miles I cover, the guilt sticks to me like a second skin.

Adrian flickers through my thoughts, uninvited.

I hate his blank-face act. I hate how much better he is at this than I'll ever be. Caring for someone while keeping himself together. How does he do it? What would that even feel like?

My legs slow automatically as I near the block. I force a few deep breaths, wiping sweat off my face, before rounding the corner to see the house ahead.

Adrian's car is in the driveway.

He's home already?

Something twists in my chest—uncertainty, shame, irritation. A fleeting, cowardly part of me almost turns to keep running. But my legs are jelly now, and no matter how far I go, I'll always have to come back.
By the time I step inside, I'm drenched and gasping for air. Bending over, hands on my knees, I try to catch my breath... but I feel Adrian's eyes on me the second I look up.

His expression is unreadable, like usual. Those impossibly dark eyes make something flicker beneath my skin, equal parts unease and... something I don't want to name.

"Hey," I say, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to awkward. "You're home early. I, uh... needed to blow off some steam."

His eyebrows lift slightly, but his face doesn't betray much.

Great. Now we're both just standing here. Awkward silence coiling in the space between us, waiting for someone to blink first.