Liberty POV

Dad's office always smells like eucalyptus and paper — calm, clinical, detached. Normally it helps me breathe easier, but tonight it just makes my chest feel tight.

He's at his desk, reading over files, glasses low on his nose. The lamplight makes everything look smaller, quieter. I hover in the doorway, twisting my hands until he looks up.

"Liberty," he says gently. "You're supposed to be relaxing. Exams just finished."

"I can't relax," I admit, stepping inside. "It's Tuck."

His expression doesn't change, but I see it — the small flicker behind his eyes. The professional wall going up. "You know I can't discuss—"

"He's my boyfriend," I cut in. "You can't expect me to just not ask."

"Liberty..." His tone softens, but it's firm. "You know how this works. I can't disclose anything about my patients. Not even him."

"I don't need details," I say quickly, voice cracking. "I just— I need to know he's okay. He's not talking to anyone, not even Ella. He's trying so hard to pretend he's fine, and I can see he's not. He's barely sleeping. He's fading again, Dad."

He sets his pen down and leans back, studying me. "You care deeply about him. That's good. But you have to understand, there are boundaries for a reason."

"Boundaries don't help when the person you love is falling apart!"

The words burst out sharper than I meant, echoing in the quiet room.

He sighs, taking off his glasses. "You sound like me at your age."

"Then you know what this feels like," I whisper. "I'm scared."

He looks at me for a long time before saying, "I can't tell you specifics, Liberty. But I can tell you this — I'm aware of his situation. We're working closely. And yes, I'm concerned too."

That lands heavier than I expected. Concerned. The word feels like a lead weight.

"Then what happens now?" I ask.

"That depends on him. Healing is a choice, but it's also a process. And sometimes it gets worse before it gets better."

I nod, but the tears still sting behind my eyes. "He's not just another patient to me."

"I know," he says quietly. "Which is why you have to take care of yourself, too. You can support him, but you can't fix him. That's not your burden."

I cross my arms, trying not to cry. "He's my boyfriend. That is my burden."

He stands and walks over, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "It's your heart, Liberty. Not your responsibility. There's a difference."

I look up at him, desperate. "So what do I do?"

"Be there," he says simply. "Listen. Remind him he isn't alone. Sometimes that's more healing than anything I can prescribe."

I nod slowly, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Okay."

The conversation with Dad ended the same way it always did.
With him rubbing at his temples and me standing in the doorway, still arguing softly because I couldn't just not care.

"Liberty," he said, his voice steady but tired, "you have to let me do my job. I can't tell you everything, and you can't involve yourself in ways that cross the line."

I folded my arms. "I know the rules. But he's not just your patient, Dad. He's my boyfriend."

That made him stop. For a second, the professional mask slipped, and all that was left was worry.

"I know that, sweetheart," he said finally. "And I'm proud of how much heart you have. But loving someone who's struggling means learning to respect distance when it's needed. You can't save him — you can only stand beside him while he learns to save himself."

I bit the inside of my cheek, the words sharp but true. "He was doing better. I just... I don't want him to slip again."

"Neither do I." He leaned back in his chair, exhaustion settling deep in his face. "Go get some rest, Lib. We'll both need it."

I nodded, quietly leaving his office and heading down the hall.

My room was dim except for the soft glow of my lamp. I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled out my phone. My reflection looked hollow in the dark glass — tired, worried, stretched too thin.

I opened my messages.

Liberty: hey, Ella. sorry, I know it's late. did Tuck take his meds tonight?

It took a minute before the three dots appeared.

Ella: yeah, mom gave them to him. why?

Liberty: just checking. I know it's been rough since the exams.

Ella: he said he was gonna sleep early. why are you so worried?

Liberty: just... something feels off. can you check? please?

A longer pause this time.

Ella: fine. one sec.

I sat there, tapping my foot against the carpet, staring at the clock on my nightstand. 10:42 p.m. The seconds dragged.

Then—

Ella: he's asleep. like actually asleep. lights off, quiet. you can relax now :)

Liberty: thank you. really.

Ella: don't mention it. try to sleep, Lib.

Liberty: yeah. goodnight.

I set the phone down and leaned back, eyes stinging. The house was still, but inside, everything in me was restless.

Dad always said boundaries protected you. But right now, boundaries felt like walls — and all I could do was hope Tuck stayed safe behind his own.

"Please," I whispered into the dark, "just let him keep fighting."

Because I knew if he fell again... I wasn't sure I'd survive watching it happen

The light slipping through the curtains was soft and cold — that pale winter blue that made everything look quiet. My alarm hadn't gone off yet, but I could hear Dad moving around downstairs, the usual sounds of a morning he tried not to wake me on: the soft clink of his mug, the shuffle of papers, the steady rhythm of someone already deep in thought.

I groaned and sat up, hair a mess, the blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. Before I could even find my slippers, there was a light knock at the door.

"Lib?" Dad's voice carried through, calm as ever.

"Yeah?" I called, rubbing my eyes.

The door cracked open, and he poked his head in — tie already knotted, coat over his arm, the picture of a man who hadn't stopped working since sunrise.

"I'm heading out," he said. "I wasn't sure if you were coming today."

I hesitated. I usually did. Saturdays were the day I helped him — organizing files, talking with patients who remembered me from before I went back to school, helping with art therapy or small sessions. But this morning, I wasn't sure if I could handle it. After last night's conversation about Tuck, everything in me still felt tight.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I didn't sleep much."

He studied me for a moment. "You're allowed to take a break, you know."

"I know." I fiddled with the edge of the blanket. "But I want to come. I just... need a few minutes."

His expression softened — a rare flicker of something warmer than his usual composure. "Alright. I'll wait in the car. Coffee's downstairs."

"Thanks, Dad."

He nodded once and left, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. I sat there for another moment, breathing in the stillness.

Part of me was afraid to go — afraid of seeing Sparky again, of feeling that familiar ache that came with walking those halls. But another part of me couldn't stay away.

Helping was the one thing that made me feel like all of this — the pain, the fear, the loss — meant something.

I threw on my sweater, tied my hair back, and grabbed my jacket.

"Okay," I whispered to myself, standing at the mirror. "You've got this."

By the time I came downstairs, Dad was already by the door, keys in hand. He gave me a small smile.

"I thought you might change your mind," he said.

I smiled faintly back. "You know me too well."

He held the door open. "Let's go help some people, kiddo."

I followed him out into the cold, the world still blanketed in snow, the air sharp and clean. Somewhere in the distance, the sun was trying to break through the gray — small, but enough to feel like hope.

The air inside the facility was warmer than outside but still carried that sterile edge — the faint scent of disinfectant and coffee that had burned too long on the warmer. The front desk nurse, Marlene, smiled when she saw me step in.

"Back again, sweetheart?" she said, sliding a clipboard toward me. "Dr. Saunders said you'd be helping out today."

"Yeah," I said, scribbling my name. "Just until early afternoon. I'm meeting friends later for the carnival."

She nodded. "Good. You kids need some fun. It's been a hard few months."

It had. More than anyone here really knew.

I slipped into my usual routine: organizing patient files, helping restock the common room art supplies, chatting softly with a few long-term residents who remembered me from before. Some faces were new; others hadn't changed in years.

Mrs. Talbot waved from her seat near the window, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically. "You're taller every time I see you."

I smiled. "You said that last month."

She chuckled. "Then it must be true."

Moments like that helped. They reminded me why I came here. Not just for Tuck, or because my dad ran this place, but because these people — every one of them — needed to feel seen.

When I brought coffee to the nurses' station, Dad passed by with a chart in his hand. "You holding up?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," I said, even though my back ached from standing and my brain kept wandering to Tuck. "You?"

He smiled faintly. "Busier than I'd like. But I'm glad you're here."

He didn't mention Sparky, but I knew he was thinking about him. I was too.

By noon, my shift was almost over. I'd helped two patients with simple memory exercises and sorted a stack of patient journals into the file room. The facility was quieter today — the weekend calm that always settled in after morning meds and therapy sessions.

As I grabbed my coat, Marlene waved me over. "Heading out, hon?"

"Yeah. Carnival time."

She grinned. "Go have fun. Tell your dad not to work too late for once."

"I'll try," I said, pulling up my hood.

Stepping outside, the cold air hit my cheeks, bright and sharp. Snow was still falling, thin flurries catching in my hair. For a second, I looked back at the windows — at the people inside, at the stillness that lingered in that place.

I wondered if Sparky was awake, if he was having one of his quieter days, or if the guilt was still clawing at him.

Then I turned away, stepping into the sunlight that managed to break through the clouds.

For the next few hours, I needed to be just Liberty — not a volunteer, not the daughter of a doctor, not the girlfriend of a boy still trying to stay well.

Just a girl meeting her friends, ready for a little light in the middle of winter.