The gray light feels wrong, like the world is stuck halfway between night and morning.
It slips through the window and settles over everything, quiet and thin.
Outside, the day hasn't fully started yet.
I sit up and rub my eyes. My head still feels heavy from the nightmare, like part of it followed me into waking up.
James is on the floor, wrapped in his blanket, shoulders hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller.
The black eye. The split lip.
They stand out in the pale light, sharper and more real than they did last night.
"Morning," he says.
His voice sounds tired.
"Morning."
We don't talk after that. The silence stretches, awkward and fragile.
Neither of us seems to know how to move past it.
I finally ask, "James… does Gaby know?"
He looks up fast. "No."
"No?"
"I didn't tell her," he says. "She doesn't need to hear about him... not yet."
I nod slowly. "You're trying to protect her."
He shrugs. "Someone has to."
The quiet comes back.
I study his face, the bruises he keeps pretending aren't a big deal. "You're hurt."
"I'll be fine," he says right away. "It's not that bad."
His phone buzzes on the floor.
He stiffens and stares at it before picking it up. "It's my mom," he says. His thumb hovers over the screen. "I don't know if I'm ready."
"You should answer," I say. "She might need you."
He takes a breath and answers. "Hey, Mom?"
I can't hear her, but I watch his face change. His eyes widen. His mouth parts.
He leans back against the wall, like the news is too heavy to stand up to.
He says okay. Says he understands. Says he'll meet her.
Then he ends the call.
"She did it," he says softly. "She left him. She pressed charges."
I sit up straighter. "That's… huge."
"Yeah." He shakes his head. "I don't even know how to feel yet. It doesn't seem real."
I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder. "She's being really strong."
He swallows. "I don't want to leave Gaby. But my mom's staying at my uncle's for a few days. I… I'll have to lie to her, and she'll know."
"I know," I say. "But your mom needs you."
He grips his phone, then lets go.
"You have to tell Gaby. You shouldn't hide something like this."
He thinks for a long moment, then nods. "I know. And I will. I just don't want her to see me like this."
It's like everything is hitting him at once—his dad, the bruises, Gaby, whatever comes next.
The room feels heavy again.
The fear is still there, sitting in the corners.
But something else is there too.
Change.
It's shaky and uncertain, but it's real.
I squeeze his shoulder. "You'll get through this," I say. "You always do."