I'll be honest, freelance gigs can be a mixed bag. Sometimes you're working on something that makes your heart race with excitement, and other times it feels like a grind. But this project? It's one of the good ones. I've got my tablet set up on the kitchen table, my stylus gliding over the screen as I lose myself in the details of the digital piece I'm working on. The client is a small indie game developer who found me through an online art forum. They're paying me a decent chunk of change, enough to cover a couple of months' rent and then some, to create character designs for their upcoming fantasy RPG, and I'm all in.

Today, I'm focused on bringing a rogue to life—a lithe, cunning figure with sharp features and even sharper weapons. As I sketch out the curve of a blade, my thoughts drift back to Valarie. It's almost impossible not to think about her. I can still feel the ghost of her touch on my skin, and it's enough to make my hand falter for a moment before I shake my head and refocus on the drawing.

And then there's Declan. The guy's a cop, for fuck's sake. Part of me wonders if he's going to run a background check on me, dig up whatever dirt he can find. Not that he'd find much. My juvenile records are sealed. Or at least they should be. But still, it's a nagging thought. I'm not a dangerous man, not anymore, but I wasn't always the clean-cut guy you see today. I made some bad choices when I was younger, did some things I'm not proud of. All for people I thought gave a damn about me. People who turned out to be just as lost as I was.

It's all a blur now, but I remember the fear, the adrenaline, the stupid shit I did to prove myself to them. I'm not proud of it, but it's a part of me, a part that I've worked hard to move past. I'm not that guy anymore. I've grown up, settled down—well, as much as someone like me can settle down. I'm still a high-spirited, rebellious fucker, and I don't think that'll ever change. But I'm not the wild kid I used to be. I've mellowed out a bit, found a way to channel that energy into something productive. My art keeps me grounded, gives me a purpose. It's my way of staying sane in a world that doesn't always make sense. Maybe it's maturity, or maybe it's just exhaustion from all the bullshit. Either way, I'm different now, and I'm okay with that.

My hand moves almost mechanically as I shade in the rogue's leather armor, the strokes precise but my mind miles away. Art has always been my escape, my way of finding some kind of peace in a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable. It's something that's stayed with me through all the shit life's thrown my way. When I was younger, it was my way of dealing with things I didn't want to think about—my mom, the fights, the drugs. Now, it's more of a meditation, something that keeps me centered.

The client wants something that screams "edgy," something that will make their product stand out in a crowded market. I can do edgy. Hell, I live for edgy. But it's more than that. It's a challenge, a way for me to push my skills to the next level. And I need that. I crave it.

My mind wanders back to Valarie as I add a few more strokes to the piece. She's like that, too—a challenge, something new and exciting that's got me hooked. But it's more than just the thrill of it. There's something about her, something that makes me want to know her, really know her, in a way I haven't wanted to know anyone in a long time. And then there's Declan, the other piece of this strange puzzle. I wonder if he's feeling the same way, if he's just as caught up in this as I am.

I add a few more details to the artwork. The soft glint of sun reflecting off the blades surfaces, the gritty texture of the background. It's coming together, slowly but surely, and I can already picture the client's reaction when they see it. This is the kind of work that gets me noticed, that makes people want to hire me again and again. And I love it. I love the feeling of creating something from nothing, of taking an idea and turning it into something real, something tangible. It's like magic, but better because it's mine. I control it. I shape it.

But then there are those thoughts, the ones I can't seem to shake, about who I was and who I am now. Maybe it's because of Valarie, or maybe it's because of Declan, but I find myself thinking about the past more often lately. About the things I did, the people I hurt, and the way it all fell apart. I'm not that guy anymore, but sometimes it feels like he's still there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the chance to fuck things up again.

I push the thoughts aside, focusing on the project in front of me. The client's paying me good money for this, and I'm not about to let my own shit get in the way. But it's hard. Harder than I thought it would be. Maybe that's why I took up art in the first place—because it's the one thing I can control, the one thing that's entirely mine. When I'm working, everything else fades away. Usually. The doubts, the fears, the memories—they all disappear, replaced by the simple act of creating. It's like a drug, but one that makes me better, stronger.

After a few more hours of work, I set my tablet aside, feeling the familiar satisfaction of a job well done. I lean back in my chair, stretching out the kinks in my neck and shoulders. The rogue is nearly complete, just a few finishing touches needed. I'm tempted to keep going, to lose myself in the work until it's perfect, but I know better. Sometimes you need to step away, to take a break, and come back with fresh eyes. I check the clock and realize it's time to head out. I've got somewhere to be.

I grab my jacket, slip my tablet into my bag, and head out to the garage where my motorcycle is waiting. There's something about riding that clears my head, gives me a sense of freedom I don't get from anything else. I start the engine, the roar filling the space around me, and I can't help but grin as I pull out onto the street. The sound is like music, low and powerful, vibrating through my whole body.

As I weave through the streets, my thoughts drift back to the conversation we had last night, the way Declan looked at me when he talked about ground rules and boundaries. He's a straight shooter, I'll give him that. No bullshit, no games. And I respect that. Hell, I might even like him, though I'd never admit it out loud. But there's still that nagging doubt, that question of whether he's really okay with all of this, whether any of us are. It's one thing to say it, to agree to it, but living it? That's a whole different ball game.

I pull up to a stoplight, the red glow reflecting off the asphalt, and I think about what Valarie said about wanting to take things slow, about not rushing into anything. It makes sense, but it also drives me fucking crazy. I'm not good at waiting, not good at sitting back and letting things unfold. I'm a man of action, always have been, and this whole situation has me tied up in knots.

But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's exactly what I need, what we all need. Something to push us, to challenge us, to make us better. Or maybe it's just a disaster waiting to happen. Only time will tell.

I pull up to the nursing home, the engine of my bike rumbling softly as I kill the ignition. The place looks the same as always—neatly kept grounds, a few cars parked out front, the kind of building that tries too hard to feel welcoming but still carries that sterile, lifeless vibe. I sigh, pulling off my helmet and running a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the heaviness that always settles in my chest when I come here. No matter how many times I've walked through those doors, it never gets easier.

I head inside, the cool air of the lobby hitting me as I step up to the front desk. The woman behind the counter, Clara, looks up and gives me a small, familiar smile. She's been here as long as I've been coming, and she knows me by now. Hell, she probably knows me better than most people in my life do.

"How is she today?" I ask, leaning against the counter.

Clara sighs and shakes her head. "It's one of her rougher days, I'm afraid. She's been on the oxygen tank all morning."

I nod, the tightness in my chest getting worse. I've heard that a lot lately—"rougher days." They're becoming more frequent, more intense. Every time I come here, it's like a fucking reminder that she's slipping away a little more.

"Thanks," I mutter, signing the guest check-in and turning toward the hallway. It's a walk I've made more times than I can count, but it never gets any easier. Each step feels heavier, like I'm dragging the weight of our fucked-up past along with me.

I make my way down the hall, my boots echoing off the linoleum floors. It's a walk I've made at least once a week for the past seven years, and yet it never gets any easier. Each step feels heavier as I approach my mom's room, the memories of what used to be flooding back.

When I push open the door, I find her lying in bed, her chest rising and falling. She's on her oxygen tank today, the clear tubing snaking around her face, the small machine humming softly beside her bed. That's how I know it's a bad day. She's been needing it more and more lately, the tank becoming less of a crutch and more of a lifeline. Every time I see it, a knot forms in my stomach, tightening with the realization that she's deteriorating faster than I can keep up with.

I walk over to her bedside, my steps careful, almost hesitant. She doesn't stir as I pull up a chair and sit down, the familiar creak of the seat a reminder of how many times I've been here before. I reach out and take her hand, the skin so paper-thin it feels like it could tear at the slightest touch. Her hand used to be strong, used to hold me steady when the world felt like it was falling apart. Now, it's fragile, almost weightless in my grasp.

I sit there for a moment, just holding her hand, letting the silence settle around us. It's strange how quiet it is in here, how still everything feels. It's like the world outside doesn't exist, like it's just the two of us trapped in this room, in this moment.

It wasn't always like this. I used to be so close to her. I was a momma's boy, clinging to her every word, following her around like a shadow. But that was before I realized she wasn't much of a mother. Before the nights I spent lying awake, listening to her fight with whichever boyfriend she had at the time, wondering if this would be the night it all went too far. The sound of breaking glass or slammed doors always echoing through our tiny apartment.

And then, when I was in my teens, it felt like I was the one taking care of her. I was the one making sure she didn't overdose, the one who called 911 when she did. I remember coming home from school one day to find her passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of pills on the coffee table. I was fourteen. I called 911, my hands shaking so badly I could barely dial the number. They saved her that day, but it wasn't the last time I'd find her like that. There were too many close calls, too many nights spent wondering if she'd make it through to see the morning.

But she always did. She was resilient, stubborn as hell, refusing to give up even when it seemed like the whole world was against her. And now, here she is, lying in this bed, barely holding on. It's like the universe finally wore her down, finally took away that fire she used to have. And it fucking hurts to see her like this, to see her so... small.

I swallow hard, the memories too close, too raw. But I stay, holding her hand, because despite everything, she's still my mom. And I guess some part of me still loves her, even if it's not the kind of love I used to feel.

As I sit here, holding her hand, I can't help but wonder if I'll ever bring Valarie here. Or even Declan, for that matter. What would they think if they saw this? If they saw her like this, saw me like this? I've always kept this part of my life separate, hidden away like some dark secret. I'm not sure what I'd say, how I'd explain any of this. Maybe it's better if I don't tell them. Maybe it's better if they never see this part of my life.

I don't know if I'm ready to share this with them. Hell, I don't know if I'm ready to share it with myself. It's easier to keep it all compartmentalized, to keep this part of my life in a box that I only open when I have to. But I can't help but think about what it would be like to have them here, to not have to face this alone.

Mom sleeps through the whole visit. She doesn't even know I'm here. And maybe that's for the best. Maybe it's easier this way, easier to keep this distance between us, to keep the past from creeping into the present. But it still fucking hurts.

I sit with her for a few hours, just holding her hand, watching her breathe. It's the only thing I can do, the only thing that feels right. But eventually, I have to go. I have to get out of this room, out of this place, before it swallows me whole. When I finally stand, I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, the gesture more for me than for her.

As I leave, I stop by the front desk again. Clara looks up, her expression soft with understanding. "Can someone give me a call on one of her better days?" I ask. "She slept through the whole visit.""

"Of course, Elias," she says, her smile gentle. "We'll make sure to let you know."

As I step outside, the fresh air hits me like a slap to the face, the sunlight almost blinding after the dimness of the room. I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the weight that's settled on my shoulders. But it's not that easy. It never is.

I walk back to my bike, the familiar hum of the engine a welcome distraction as I start it up and head out. But even as I ride, even as the wind whips past me, I can't shake the thoughts swirling in my head. The past, the present, the future—it's all tangled up together, a mess of emotions I don't know how to deal with.

There's a lot I don't talk about, a lot I keep locked up inside. For now, though, I'll focus on what I can control. The rest will come in time, if it's meant to.