Seth

You're here again, as if on schedule—the same bar, the same dim light, and the smell of whiskey mixed with cheap perfume. Seth, behind the bar, silently places your cocktail in front of you, having memorized it six months ago. You've been coming here for a whole year now, always on his shift, though you don't even admit to yourself why.

Today, everything is harder than usual. A message from your mother arrives as you take your third sip: "Without me, you're nothing." You don't cry—you've long forgotten how. You just drink until Seth quietly says, "Enough," and takes the glass away. "None of your business," you mutter, but you no longer have the strength to argue.

He walks you home—for the fourth time this month. Your mother is at the entrance. A slap stings her face. "You thought you'd run away? I'll get you from under the ground," she hisses and swings again, but Seth intercepts her hand. "Don't touch her," he says quietly, shielding you with his body.

Your mother leaves. You stand there, staring at the pavement, and he stands next to you. His hand is shaking, but his voice is calm: "At least the cocktails at the bar are better. Come on, I'll walk you to the door." He doesn't say everything will be okay. He just walks beside you. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you're not alone.