?? The Unseen ??

Apologies for any mistakes you might come across!
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When Raven woke up that morning, he didn’t expect the ache.

He knew it would come eventually—knew it would hit harder than he was ready for—but not today. He hadn’t planned for today to be the day everything started to hurt. In fact, he'd prefer it if the pain didn't come at all.

And no, he wasn’t talking about heartbreak or some lingering emotional wound.

This was physical.

He jogged down the stairs with a throbbing vein pulsing at his temple, a wince carved into the corner of his lips. His shoulders burned with a dull, dragging ache that pulsed in rhythm with every step—through muscle, through ligament, into his skull. His brain felt like it was moving to the beat of a slow, pounding drum. This migraine, and this dull ache that tore through him, intensifying with each simple contort of his muscles..

It wasn’t from practice. It wasn’t the leftover tension from drills or late-night homework. It wasn’t even from lugging laundry baskets around at home.

It was stress.

Plain and simple. Crushing, invisible, relentless stress.

It was the result of endless thinking—constant worrying about people, the future, the past. Unconscious rewinding of moments, replaying choices, imagining what could’ve been... and what couldn’t. He spent hours mapping out some perfect future—for his parents, for himself. Trying not to screw it all up.

Trying to think of everything.

His parents had always told him not to. Not to overthink. Not to let his nerves twist themselves into knots over things he couldn’t control. Not to let the bad stuff cling so hard.

But.. he couldn’t help it.

So, when he came downstairs and saw his dad on the couch, half-watching TV while fumbling with his shoelaces, and caught his mom moving between the fridge and stove, scolding someone about the last can of beef, Raven knew exactly what he had to do.

Time to fake a smile.

He slipped quietly into the kitchen, letting his bag slide to the floor with a soft thud, and perched on one of the high stools. It tilted precariously beneath him, just enough to make his body lean forward, but he didn’t move. He stared straight ahead—out the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the lawn shimmer with dew.

It looked peaceful out there. Clean. Free from any kind of worry whatsoever.

If only humans were like grass...

"Raven! We didn’t see you come down the stairs," his mother’s voice floated into the kitchen.

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing in through the ache still nestled snugly deep in his shoulders. Then opened them and smiled. Barely.

“Good morning, Mom. Morning, Dad.”

His father turned to him—a handsome man, his once-dark brown hair streaked with grey now, hazel eyes still sharp beneath a tired smile. He was adjusting his tie, hands a little slower than usual.

“Morning, son. How’d you sleep?”

I barely slept three hours.

But Raven didn’t say that. Instead, he looked his father in the eye, offered a very much practiced smile, and said, “Very well.”

His father didn't utter a word to that.

His mother walked into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She glanced at him briefly, her brow tightening for just a second before she turned to the fridge. “There's toast. And I think there’s still some jam left in the pantry.”