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Fragile Threads

Noah lay still in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the faint hum of the city drifting through the cracks in the windows. For the first time, he was here with them—Marcela, Finn, and him—under one roof, in his place. It was strange, surreal, but also... right. Even if it didn’t feel completely like home yet.

He glanced at the small figure curled up beside him. Finn’s face was relaxed in sleep, his small body tucked under the covers, the soft rise and fall of his chest a constant reassurance that, for now, at least he was here. Noah’s heart swelled as he watched the boy. Finn. His son. A miracle. The word kept echoing in his mind, like something sacred, something fragile. He hadn’t been there when the kid had taken his first steps, or learned to talk, or fallen asleep with his head on Marcela’s lap after a long day. He missed all of that. But here, now, he could watch him.

His son. God, it still felt like a weight on his tongue, one he wasn’t sure he could speak without feeling like a fraud. It tore him up. He didn’t have the right to call himself that. Not yet. Not when the truth was still hanging between him and Marcela, unresolved, unknown to Finn.

The brokenness of their family, of this fragile thread that tied them all together now, dug under his skin. Every awkward silence between him and Marcela, every unsure glance they exchanged, every time Finn looked up at him like he was just a stranger—Noah hated it. He longed for things to be different, for the pieces to somehow click into place, but it was messy. So messy.

He shouldn’t have followed her. He knew this. It had been a lesson learned too many times, the kind of self-inflicted wound he never seemed to learn from. He had learned the hard way how it felt to get close to her, only to have it all unravel when they were both too stubborn to reach for the truth.

Still, despite all the warnings, despite all the scars on his heart, he got out of bed.