As the moon watches over the stars, let this picture be your anchor when you feel lost.

I turn the polaroid photo between my fingers, studying the two figures frozen in time. Dad has his arm around the young boy who used to be me, and I can almost feel the warmth in that moment. Twenty years have passed since it was taken, yet it still feels alive except for the empty space where one person should have been. My mother is missing from the frame, just as she has always been missing from my life.

Beneath the photo, there is a small note written in sluggish handwriting.

Mingxi & Baba.

A smile tugs at my lips as I remember the tantrum I threw to take a family photo. All my classmates had theirs to show off, and I wanted one too. I cried until Dad finally gave in. We took dozens of pictures that day—some serious, some ridiculous, wearing wigs and laughing until we fell over. Most of those photos are gone now, but this one survived. I keep it tucked safely in my wallet, close to me wherever I go.

I rise from the bed and stretch, my eyes wandering to the beige walls surrounding me. The warmth of this room feels different from my apartment, where everything feels too cold against my skin. Layla’s house feels…like home.

How did I even end up here?

After finishing the report last night, I couldn’t sleep. It felt like someone was watching me again. So I grabbed my keys and my medicine, caught the late bus, and came to Skyline Residency. Layla’s mom, Ciara Matthews, opened the door even at that hour and let me in without a word. I crashed in their guest room. I didn’t sleep, but at least here, I felt safe.

I hear the clinking of utensils; it sounds like Mrs. Matthews is awake. I walk to the door and open it. Afternoon light spills through the window, and the first thing that catches my attention is the piano standing out against the white walls.

Layla’s parents bought that piano for Lionel, so he could come over and play whenever he wanted. To be honest, the Matthews have always been like a second family to all of us. Most of my middle and high school memories were made here. Lionel has played countless pieces for us on that piano, and each one still holds a special place in my heart.

Smiling at the memory, I walk past it and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Matthews is busy preparing lunch. An apron is tied around her waist, her brunette hair gathered in a bun, and she hasn’t noticed me yet.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Matthews,” I say, taking an apron from the cupboard and tying it around my own waist, “So, what’s for lunch?”

I step beside her and glance over the counter. Pasta, potatoes, marinated chicken, and bowls of fresh vegetables for salad fill the space in front of us.

“Mikhael! Did I wake you up?” She asks while rinsing the potatoes under the running water.

“No, Mrs. Matthews. I was already awake when I heard you, and yes, I’ve freshened up, even took a shower. I can’t thank you enough for the clothes.” I glance down at the white polo shirt I found folded neatly in the cabinet, “Is this new?”

“Oh yes,” she says with a smile, “I went shopping with Jerome and bought some clothes for you boys.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Mrs. Matthews,” I reply.

She sets down the potatoes and reaches out to ruffle my hair. “Even if you tell me not to, I still wish to do that. Each one of you is like my own son.”

I lean slightly into her touch. Her warmth always tugs at something deep inside me—a kind of care I’ve never known from my own mother.

Her attention drifts back to the ingredients and she pushes the bowl towards me, “Be a dear and cut the vegetables for the salad?” She asks. I take the knife from the holder and reach for a tomato.

As I slice, I ask, “How has the court been, Mrs. Matthews?”

“Nothing has changed,” She replies, “Even when I am not in court, I still hear the anger, the desperation, the fear of being separated. It often leads people to lie about their situations to gain an advantage. After working in this field for thirty years, you just get used to it, like everyone does.”

“Any recent cases causing stress?” I ask.

“Not really,” She says, shaking her head, “I’m more baffled by human nature. There was one abusive marriage case recently. Thankfully, the judge was supportive of the wife, and she got justice. It was the husband that frustrated me. He refused to admit his crimes or acknowledge the evidence of the abuse he inflicted on her.”

I nod at her explanation, having seen firsthand how divorce works.

I slide a piece of carrot into my mouth as we work in companionable silence, which is broken when I notice Mr. Matthews tiptoeing toward his wife, signaling me to stay quiet.

I watch in amusement as he reaches her, wrapping his arms around her waist and planting a kiss on her forehead. Mrs. Matthews laughs under his touch.

“I feel like I am trespassing here,” I tease. They both glance at me, their faces glowing with fondness, “You two would definitely win the most affectionate couple trophy if that existed.”

“Well, can you blame a man when he has a wife like Ciara?” Mr. Matthews replies, landing another kiss before stepping back, “Ciara, you are making Mikhael work first thing in the noon? Let the poor boy breathe.”

Before she can respond, I chime in, “She didn’t ask me. I kept myself busy with work. Even if you didn’t let me, I would still help around the house.”

Mrs. Matthews shrugs while Mr. Matthews sighs.

“I am taking the boy with me.”

It’s better not to argue with him so I put down the knife, removed the apron, and followed Mr. Matthews.

We settle on the black couch as he picks up the newspaper. I sit on the adjacent couch, tapping my fingers against my knees.

“So—” I start.

“Do you want my daughter’s hand in marriage?” he cuts in, and I shake my head furiously.

“Not this again, Mr. Matthews,” I mutter.

He laughs loudly, as if he has spotted a deer frozen in the headlights. I feel exactly like that. It is a running joke in the Matthews household. He always teases me about marrying Layla, and even though we promised each other that if neither of us found someone by thirty, we would marry each other, her father has taken the joke a little too seriously.

“You don’t want my daughter, Mikhael?” he teases, flipping the pages of the newspaper.

“You already know the answer, Mr. Matthews, and it is a joke!” I bury my face in my palms.

“Did he ask for your hand in marriage?” Mrs. Matthews calls from the kitchen, her tone teasing, and I pull my hands away from my face in panic.

“Mrs. Matthews! Not you too!” I shout, defeated by them both.

“It is a shame, really,” he says, closing the newspaper and looking at me, “My daughter and you would be perfect together. You have known each other the longest, yet neither of you sees the other as more than a best friend.”

“It is different than that, Mr. Matthews. Even if we have known each other since middle school, I know I am not perfect for her and neither does she. We will both find someone else, but no matter what, we will support each other at the end of the day,” I reply honestly.

He smiles at my words and stands up. I rise with him.

“Wait here,” he says.

After a minute, he returns holding a leather jacket and tosses it to me. Then he goes to the cabinet near the main door and picks up the car keys.

“Are we going somewhere?” I ask as I slip on the jacket.

“Taking you to Skyline Hospital. Don’t you want to see your dad?”

I stop in my tracks. He is right. It is the first week of November. I always meet him at the start of the month, but Mr. Matthews actually remembered.

I follow behind him as he calls to his wife, “Ciara! I am taking Mikhael to the hospital!”

“Isn’t he going to eat something?” she asks.

“I am not hungry,” I mutter the words.

“He says he will eat something with Layla,” Mr. Matthews says.

“Tell him not to starve himself,” she calls back.

I smile at their thoughtfulness as he closes the door behind us. Standing in front of us is their car, a sleek navy 2025 Lexus LS. The afternoon air is chill indicating the winter season, and a few leaves drift across the driveway as Mr. Matthews unlocks the doors. He climbs into the driver’s seat while I slide into the passenger side.

The engine comes to life, and he reverses smoothly onto the road before heading toward the hospital. I reach forward and switch on the music player. Sunshine by OneRepublic begins to play.

“This girl and her songs…” Mr. Matthews mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

I can’t help but laugh, resting my chin on my hand as I watch the clouds drift past the car window. The silence between us is comfortable until he glances at me.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say to your father?”

My smile fades a little, “Lies. That’s what’s keeping him alive. I just have to live through it.”

His brows furrow, “Why don’t you tell him the truth, Mikhael?”

I turn my gaze to the road ahead, “What then, Mr. Matthews? Watch him break down? Watch him question everything he believes in? I can’t do that to him.”

“What about you?” His voice softens, “You always look tired. A young man like you should be living his life, not just enduring it.”

“I’m not struggling,” I say, “He went through so much for me. I’m just returning the favor, like a son should. What kind of son would I be if I couldn’t do at least that much?”

He doesn’t answer. Then, after a pause, his hand reaches over to ruffle my hair, “You’re a good kid,” he says simply.

A small chuckle escapes me, but then a thought crosses my mind. “Where was Pip? I didn’t see her around the house.”

“Without Layla, she’s basically a caterpillar,” he says with a laugh, “Sleeping in her room all day. That dog needs Layla around to feel alive.”

“She has her priorities,” I say, grinning.

Pip, the Matthews’ beagle, is old now, but she still turns into a ball of energy whenever Layla is home. Layla got her for her eighteenth birthday. I still remember how she ran around the yard, laughing as Pip chased her.