THE WEIGHT YOU CARRY
2667 Words
MATT'S POV
People think being quiet means you don’t have much going on inside.
It’s the opposite.
Being quiet means there’s too much. You just learn to carry it better than most.
---
Saturday mornings are the only time I let myself breathe slow.
No school. No schedule. No pretending to be okay when I’m not.
June’s curled on the couch with a book, blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. Her hair’s a tangled mess, and she’s still wearing the hoodie she stole from me last week.
Uncle Ron is snoring in the next room.
There’s a weird kind of peace in this house. Not the warm, cozy kind you see in movies—ours is the kind built on survival and silence. We don’t talk about the accident. We don’t say Mom’s name out loud.
But we still wake up. Still move forward.
That has to count for something.
---
June doesn’t eat breakfast unless I make it. So I do.
Scrambled eggs, toast, the last two slices of turkey bacon. I set the plate in front of her.
She looks up, bleary-eyed. “Are you dying?”
“Why?”
“You made the good bacon. You hate sharing that.”
I smirk. “I’m just feeling generous.”
She grins and digs in like it’s her last meal.
“I have a field trip Monday,” she says between bites. “Science museum. I need a signed permission slip.”
“Stick it on the fridge. I’ll get it.”
She nods, already halfway into planning which snacks to sneak into her backpack.
---
After breakfast, I go for a run.
Not because I love it. Because it quiets the noise in my head.
Three miles around the neighborhood. Hood up, headphones in. The same playlist I always use: gritty old rock and instrumental movie scores.
I pass the grocery store, the library, the same broken streetlight on Fifth Avenue that’s been flickering since last winter.
The town feels like it’s half-awake.
I like it that way.
---
By the time I get back, Uncle Ron’s up, sipping burnt coffee in the kitchen and scrolling the news like it personally offended him.
“Morning,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water.
He grunts. That’s his way of saying I love you, but I don’t do mornings.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. He finally speaks.
“You working today?”
“Yeah. Shelter shift starts at one.”
He nods. “How’s that going?”
“Fine.”
“Anyone causing trouble?”
I shrug. “Just a cat named Lucifer who thinks he’s a warlord.”
Uncle Ron chuckles once. A rare sound. I take it as a win.
---
At the animal shelter, the mood is lighter.
The volunteers are mostly high schoolers who need service hours or retirees who love dogs more than people. I’m somewhere in between.
I feed the strays, clean cages, walk the dogs who’ve been there too long.
Finn, the golden retriever mix, jumps on me the second I walk in.
“Back again, huh?” I scratch behind his ears. “Clingy little dude.”
He follows me around the whole time like I’m made of steak. I let him.
Being needed, even by a dog, feels... good.
---
Around 2:30 p.m., Kathy—the shelter manager—waves me over.
“You’ve got a visitor,” she says, confused.
I frown. “Who?”
“No idea. Says she’s your aunt.”
Aunt?
I walk to the front and freeze.
Standing by the check-in desk is my mother’s sister, Aunt Camilla.
I haven’t seen her since the funeral.
She looks exactly the same—sharp red lipstick, gold jewelry, heels too fancy for this town.
“Matthew,” she says, arms already open.
I hesitate. Then step into her hug. It smells like vanilla and something expensive.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I was passing through. Thought I’d check on you and "Junebug.”
Only she calls June that.
I’m still processing the shock.
“I didn’t know you were in town.”
She tilts her head. “Your uncle didn’t mention it?”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t really... communicate.”
She laughs like it’s charming. I don’t.
“I’d love to visit. Catch up. Take June out for ice cream, maybe.”
I nod slowly. “She’d like that.”
But inside, I feel a crack forming.
I don’t trust people who show up out of nowhere. Especially not when they left the first time.
---
Back at home, June’s watching YouTube videos with her legs thrown over the armrest.
“Aunt Camilla stopped by the shelter,” I say.
Her head snaps around. “Really?!”
“She wants to take you out sometime.”
She shrugs, trying to play it cool, but I can tell she’s excited.
“She’s rich, right?” she asks.
I laugh. “I don’t know. She’s good at pretending to be.”
June nods like that’s the same thing.
---
That night, I lie in bed with the lights off, earbuds in, staring at the ceiling.
I can hear the hum of the refrigerator. The distant sound of Ron's video game next door.
I think about the past. About the funeral. About how Aunt Camilla stood next to me, hand on my shoulder, and didn’t say a word.
About how she left the next morning.
I wonder why she came back now.
And if she’ll stay.
Part of me hopes she doesn’t.
But a smaller, quieter part—maybe the part that still wants to believe in family—kind of hopes she does.
---
Some days feel heavier than others.
Not because anything big happens. Nothing explodes. No one fights. No one yells.
But the weight still builds—slow and silent, like fog on a window. You only notice it when you can’t see through anymore.
---
It’s Thursday.
My alarm goes off at 6:30. I shut it off before it can wake June. The house is still half-asleep, and I like it that way.
I move quietly through my routine: shower, brush teeth, hoodie, backpack, toast, a note on the fridge that says field trip money in the drawer.
June stumbles in just as I’m pouring her cereal.
“You look tired,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes.
“Thanks. So do you.”
We eat in silence, the kind that feels like a truce.
“You doing okay?” I ask, watching her poke at her Cheerios.
She shrugs. “Sure.”
That’s June-speak for not really, but I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t push. We’re the same that way.
---
School is the usual blur of teachers who talk too fast, students who talk too loud, and people who assume a hoodie equals a personality.
I go from calculus to lit to chemistry like I’m on autopilot.
I get called on once. I answer. Correctly. No one’s surprised.
Sometimes I wonder if people only see the grades. The name on the honor roll. The football stats.
No one ever asks what I want.
Not that I have an answer.
---
At lunch, I sit near the window and read. It’s The Iliad today. I’ve read it twice before, but something about the tragedy, the quiet in between the battles, speaks to me more now.
Achilles. Honor. Rage. All that fire wrapped in silence.
It feels familiar.
---
After school, I head to football practice. I’m not the best player, but I’m reliable. The kind of guy coaches like because I don’t cause drama and I show up on time.
But my body’s not in it today. I fumble more. I miss two plays. Coach doesn’t yell, but I can feel the shift.
“Something on your mind, Scott?” he asks after drills.
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
Lie.
---
I leave practice sore and restless. I don’t go straight home.
Instead, I walk to the edge of town. There’s a trail behind the gas station—trees, birds, quiet.
I sit on a bench halfway in. Let the breeze hit my face.
And I let myself breathe.
No noise. No expectations. No one asking for anything.
I don’t even realize I’m grinding my teeth until my jaw aches.
Why do I always feel like I’m waiting for something?
Some answer. Some signal. Some moment where the sky breaks open and tells me what I’m supposed to do with my life.
But it never comes.
---
When I get home, June’s already doing homework at the table, legs swinging, earbuds in. She takes them out when she sees me.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Okay-okay or just-okay?”
I smile, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “Just-okay.”
She shrugs. “Same.”
We eat dinner in silence. Uncle Ron’s working again. He leaves casseroles and grocery money and trust in the fridge like he hopes it’s enough.
It usually is. But not always.
---
Later, I stand at the kitchen sink, rinsing a plate, when he walks in.
Ron doesn’t say much unless he has to. But tonight, he lingers.
“Coach emailed me,” he says finally.
I brace myself.
“Said you’re falling off. Slipping in practice.”
I stare at the plate. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m just tired.”
He nods. Walks to the fridge. Pulls out a soda.
“You’re a good kid, Matt. You take care of things. Your sister. School. The house. But…”
I turn. “But what?”
He looks at me for a long time. Not like a guardian. More like someone who’s trying to remember what it feels like to be seventeen.
“But you’re allowed to be tired.”
The words hit harder than they should.
He sips the soda. “You’re not your mother. You don’t have to hold everything up by yourself.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. I know.”
“Do you?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
---
That night, I lie in bed with the lights off, listening to the fan hum.
I want to believe what Ron said. I want to believe I can let go for a second.
But I don’t know how.
Because letting go feels like dropping a glass you’ve been holding too tight for too long.
And I’m scared of the sound it’ll make when it finally shatters
---
There’s a kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.
Not the kind you feel in your muscles. Not even the kind that makes your eyes sting when you forget to blink.
It’s the kind that starts in your chest and spreads outward, like smoke under a door. The kind that makes everything—even breathing—feel like work.
---
It started with something small.
I forgot to pack June’s lunch.
Not the end of the world. She had snack money. She was fine. But the look on her face when she opened her backpack and saw nothing—just an empty space where the sandwich should’ve been—stayed with me the entire day.
She didn’t even say anything. Just smiled like it didn’t matter.
That smile? That crushed me harder than if she’d yelled.
---
School blurred.
I went through the motions: second row in calculus, back corner in English, same table at lunch. Same hoodie. Same book.
But I wasn’t really there.
Not mentally.
Coach called me out again in practice. I missed another route. Didn’t respond fast enough. Didn’t look like I cared.
Because I didn’t. Not in that moment.
All I could think about was June. And how I used to be better at this. Holding things. Holding us.
---
After practice, I showered, dressed, and sat in the locker room longer than usual. Just sat.
I stared at the floor like it owed me answers.
Didn’t get any.
---
When I finally made it home, June was already on the couch, hoodie up, eating cereal out of the box. She looked up when I walked in.
“I’m not mad about the lunch thing,” she said, like she’d been waiting to get it out of the way.
“I know,” I replied, setting my bag down.
She hesitated. “But are you okay?”
I gave her a smile I didn’t feel. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Like, ‘I need a nap’ tired or ‘the weight of the world is slowly crushing my soul’ tired?”
I snorted. “Second one. Maybe both.”
She nodded like that made sense. Then scooted over on the couch, making room.
“You wanna watch something dumb?” she offered. “Something where nobody dies or confesses their feelings dramatically?”
I dropped onto the couch beside her.
“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds perfect.”
---
We watched some animated show about a dog who solves mysteries but is afraid of sandwiches or something.
I didn’t track the plot. I just focused on June’s laughter. It was steady. Real.
Like a heartbeat I needed to hear to keep my own steady.
---
Later, after she went to bed, I stood in the hallway for a long time. Just… stood there.
I looked at the picture of Mom still hanging crooked near the front door.
She’s holding a baby version of me. Laughing. Wind in her hair. Sun on her face.
I don’t remember that moment. I only remember her perfume. And the sound her heels made on the kitchen tile. And how her hands were always warm, even in winter.
The rest is just fragments.
---
I stepped outside for air.
The night was cold. Quiet. The kind of quiet that feels heavy.
I walked without thinking. Just street after street, past shut windows and porch lights. I ended up at the park near the elementary school. The one Mom used to take me and June to on Sundays.
There was still a rusted swing set. I sat on the middle swing. Let it creak beneath me.
I don’t cry. I haven’t cried in years.
But tonight...
I almost did.
Not because anything happened. But because I realized I don’t know how to ask for help.
I’ve built this whole version of myself—strong, steady, silent—and now I don’t know how to be anything else.
And I’m tired.
God, I’m so tired.
---
When I got home, it was almost midnight.
June was asleep. A sticky note on the fridge read: “You left your hoodie on the couch, nerd. Fold it next time. - J.”
I smiled.
Small things. They keep me going.
---
The next day at school, Ms. Hadley—my English teacher—pulled me aside after class.
“You okay, Matt?”
I froze. “Yeah.”
“You’ve seemed a little... off. Just wanted to check in.”
I shrugged. “Just a lot on my plate. School. Football. Home stuff.”
She nodded. “I know you carry more than most. But just so you know—you don’t have to carry it alone. My door’s open.”
I muttered thanks. Then left.
But something about the way she said it stuck.
Like she saw through me a little.
Like maybe the cracks are more visible than I thought.
---
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Again.
So I put on my headphones. Played some old rock playlist I haven’t touched in months.
Track four was a song Mom used to hum when she thought no one was listening.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time in a long time…
I let the tears come.
No gasping. No shaking. Just quiet.
Like everything else about me.
- Writer
