Chapter 2: the things we carry
962 Words
The city didn’t sleep.
Lights blinked in distant buildings, cars slid through the roads below, and somewhere far off, a siren cried into the night. Life kept moving like nothing was broken.
Ethan sat with his elbows on his knees, blanket slipping off one shoulder, eyes fixed on everything and nothing at once.
“You ever notice,” he said after a while, “how the world just… goes on?”
Lyra glanced at him. “Even when you feel like it shouldn’t?”
“Yeah.” He let out a quiet breath. “Like nothing cares.”
She didn’t argue. She just nodded, like she understood that feeling too well.
A pause settled between them, soft but heavy.
Then Lyra spoke again. “Do you have family?”
Ethan shifted slightly, like the question caught him off guard. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean… what’s left of it.”
She waited, giving him space instead of pushing.
“It used to be normal,” he went on. “Mom, dad… me. Nothing special, but it worked.” He gave a small shrug. “Then she got sick.”
His voice didn’t break. It just… dulled.
“After she died, everything changed. My dad’s barely around. When he is, he’s not really there. And me?” He let out a dry laugh. “I just… learned how to deal with things on my own.”
Lyra’s expression softened, her eyes steady on him.
“That must’ve been hard,” she said quietly.
He shrugged again, like it didn’t matter. Like it mattered too much.
“What about you?” he asked, turning it back to her.
Lyra smiled faintly, but there was something fragile in it.
“My parents are… strong,” she said. “At least, they try to be. My mom cries when she thinks I’m asleep. My dad avoids looking at me for too long.”
Her fingers twisted lightly in her gown.
“They think I don’t notice,” she added softly. “But I do.”
Ethan nodded, his chest tightening a little. That kind of pain—the quiet kind—you couldn’t fix it.
“I think that’s worse,” Lyra continued. “Not what I’m going through… but what they are.”
Silence followed, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of things neither of them knew how to say.
Then Lyra looked at him again.
“Can I ask you something?”
Ethan glanced over. “Depends.”
“Why don’t you believe in God?”
There it was.
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to the city.
“I used to,” he said.
Lyra’s brows lifted slightly. “What changed?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of the blanket.
“My mom,” he said finally. “She was sick. Really sick.”
The wind passed between them, quieter now.
“I prayed,” he continued. “Every day. Every night. I believed—like really believed—that if I just had enough faith, she’d get better.”
His voice dropped.
“But she didn’t.”
Lyra’s gaze softened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“She died,” Ethan said, the words flat, like he’d said them too many times before. “And everyone kept saying the same thing—‘God has a plan.’”
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“So yeah,” he added. “That’s what changed.”
Lyra was quiet for a moment, taking it in. Then she spoke, gently but firmly.
“I still believe God does things for a reason.”
The words landed wrong.
Ethan’s head snapped toward her, something sharp flashing in his eyes.
“For a reason?” he repeated, his voice tightening. “So what—you’re saying God killed my mom for a reason?”
The anger rose fast, raw and unfiltered.
“That’s supposed to make sense?” he continued. “That’s supposed to make it okay?”
He stood up abruptly, the blanket slipping off his shoulders and falling to the ground.
“That’s exactly why I don’t believe,” he said, shaking his head. “Because none of that sounds like a God worth believing in.”
He turned slightly, like he was about to walk away, like this was where it ended.
“Ethan.”
Her voice stopped him. Not loud. Not forceful. Just… steady.
He didn’t turn back immediately, but he didn’t leave either.
“Have you ever wondered,” Lyra continued softly, “why there’s birth and death?”
He frowned, still facing away. “What does that even—”
“It’s balance,” she said. “Life can’t exist without both.”
Slowly, he turned back, confusion and frustration still written all over his face.
Lyra met his gaze, her expression calm, but her eyes held something deeper now. Something unshaken.
“Maybe God isn’t taking people away to hurt us,” she said. “Maybe… He’s also saving them.”
Ethan didn’t speak.
“Maybe He’s about to take me for a reason too,” she added, her voice softer now, but no less certain. “Maybe it’s my time to leave this painful world.”
The words hung in the air, fragile but heavy.
“Maybe He knows I can’t carry it any longer,” she continued.
Ethan’s anger faltered, just for a second.
“And maybe,” Lyra said gently, “that goes for your mother too. Maybe the pain was too much for her.”
Silence fell.
Not empty. Not calm. Just… still.
Ethan stood there, caught between anger and something he couldn’t quite name.
And for the first time, he didn’t have a response.
- Writer
