Lachlan
A few days had passed since that night, but the words from my dad and Lance kept echoing in my mind. They didn't just stick with me; they lodged themselves under my skin, a constant reminder that no matter what I did, I would never be enough for them. It felt like I was walking through each day in a fog, barely able to focus on anything but the sharp sting of their judgment.
I tried to go about my usual routine, working, keeping to myself, but it was hard to escape the weight of everything. I'd hoped the distance from the conversation would help ease the tension, but instead, it just made it worse. The silence between me and my parents felt heavier, more suffocating.
One evening, just after I'd finished dinner, my phone buzzed on the table. I picked it up without thinking, my heart sinking when I saw the name on the screen.
It was from Mom.
"Lachlan, please, I need to talk to you. Come over when you can."
I sighed, leaning back in my chair, staring at the message for a moment. I wasn't sure I was ready for another confrontation, but I knew Mom—she wouldn't have reached out unless something important was happening. And with everything that had been hanging over me, I knew avoiding this conversation would just make things worse.
I got on the bus, the ride to their house feeling like a repeat of the last time—long, drawn out, and filled with the dread that comes with knowing exactly how things are going to go. When I walked up, I saw her car in the driveway, but I also noticed the faint glow of lights through the curtains, as if they were expecting me. There was no turning back now.
The door opened before I even knocked. Mom was standing there, looking softer than I remembered—less tense, more vulnerable, like she'd been waiting for this moment, too.
"You came," she said with a slight, tired smile. "Thank you."
I nodded, stepping inside without saying anything. The air felt thick, as if I was walking into a room where conversations were left unsaid, where old wounds hadn't quite healed.
We sat down in the living room, and I noticed how quiet everything was—too quiet. It wasn't the usual hum of the TV in the background, the soft clink of dishes being put away. It felt like the house was holding its breath, like we all were.
"Lachlan," Mom started, her voice shaky, "I'm sorry. For everything that's been happening. For the way your father and Lance have treated you." She paused, her eyes glistening with something I couldn't quite place. "It's been hard for all of us, but that doesn't excuse what they said."
I stared at her for a moment, surprised by her words. She'd always been the one to try and hold everything together, to be the mediator when Dad and Lance turned everything into a battleground. But this felt different. She was reaching out, something she rarely did when it came to them.
"I'm not saying they're right," she continued, "but I think your dad… he's just scared. He doesn't know how to handle seeing you go down a different path than he expected. He… he's always had this idea of what you should be."
I clenched my jaw, the frustration from earlier creeping back up. "And Lance? What about him?"
Mom sighed deeply, her hands folding in her lap. "Lance has always been the one to fit the mold. It's been hard on him, too, trying to live up to Dad's expectations. But that doesn't mean they should treat you like this."
I shook my head. "It doesn't matter, Mom. They've made it pretty clear where I stand in this family. It doesn't matter what I do."
There was a long pause as we both sat there in silence, the weight of the unspoken truth hanging heavy between us.
"I wish I could do more," she said softly. "I wish I could fix it. But… sometimes it's just not enough. I don't want you to think you're alone, though."
Her words hit me harder than I expected, a small crack forming in the wall I'd built around myself. For the first time in days, I felt something else—something that wasn't anger or disappointment. I felt seen, even if it was just for a moment.
"I don't know what to do," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I'm not like them. I don't think I ever will be. And I hate that it feels like I'm letting them down."
"You're not letting anyone down," Mom replied quickly, her voice firm but gentle. "You're figuring things out in your own time, and that's okay. It's hard for them to see that, but I know you're capable of so much more than they realize."
I looked at her, feeling a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time—hope, maybe. It wasn't much, but it was something.
"I don't want to see them," I said, almost on impulse, the words spilling out before I could stop them.
Mom's face softened. "I know. And you don't have to, if that's what you need. You need to take care of yourself, Lachlan. You've always been so strong, even if they don't see it. I see it."
I swallowed hard, trying to process everything. Her words, her love, her support—things I hadn't realized I still needed until this moment.
"Thanks, Mom," I whispered, standing up to leave. "I don't know what's next, but… I think I'll figure it out. I have to."
Mom nodded, and I could see the relief in her eyes, a quiet peace settling between us. I turned to walk out the door, but before I stepped into the night, she called after me softly.
"Remember, you're not alone, okay?"
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. For the first time in a while, I didn't feel like I was fighting this battle on my own. Maybe it wouldn't be easy. Maybe the path forward wouldn't be clear. But at least for tonight, I didn't feel quite so lost.
I don't know why I just throw myself into training, but I do. Every day, I show up, throwing myself into the grind like it was the only thing that could keep me from losing my mind. It was the only thing that made sense anymore. Every punch, every kick, every time I hit the bag or sparred with one of the other guys, I could almost forget everything that had been hanging over me for weeks. Almost.
The sweat soaked into my shirt, dripping down my face as I threw another hard right hook into the bag, the sound of the impact filling the otherwise empty gym. My knuckles ached, but I kept going. My body screamed for rest, but I wasn't about to stop. Not until something broke, not until I could escape everything else long enough to feel like I was in control. I'd been struggling with the noise in my head—the endless weight of my dad's words, the bitter disappointment from Lance. The sense that I was always too much for them, or never enough, depending on the day. My own family, the people who were supposed to have my back, and yet all they ever did was tear me down.
"Focus, Lachlan. You're better than this," Chiron's voice cut through the haze of my thoughts. He was always there when I lost myself, watching from the side with that steady, calm gaze, like he was waiting for me to snap out of it.
I stopped hitting the bag and wiped my face with the back of my hand, breathing heavily. Chiron was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usual stone-faced expression not giving away anything. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, you listened.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" he asked, his tone low but firm.
I looked down at my gloves, taking a moment before responding. The words I wanted to say felt like they were buried deep, under layers of frustration, confusion, and anger. I didn't know how to explain it—hell, I didn't even know how to admit it to myself. But Chiron wasn't the kind of guy who let you get away with pretending everything was fine.
"Just… family stuff," I muttered, tossing a glance his way, hoping he'd drop it. But Chiron wasn't that easy to shake off.
"Family stuff," he repeated, his gaze sharp. "That's vague, Lachlan. You've been carrying this around for weeks. It's affecting your training. You're better than this. What's really going on?"
I took a deep breath and grabbed the water bottle, unscrewing the cap with a little more force than necessary. I didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to bring up how my father had made me feel like a failure, how Lance had rubbed salt in the wound like it was some sick joke. Didn't want to acknowledge the fact that, in that moment, I felt like I was on the edge of falling apart.
"I'm just tired of being the disappointment," I said finally, the words coming out heavier than I expected. "I'm tired of not being nothing. Tired of hearing that I'll never amount to anything. I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore."
There, I said it. I let the darkness out, the shit I'd been holding onto for far too long. Chiron didn't flinch. He didn't pity me, didn't offer some half-hearted reassurance. He just nodded and walked over to the heavy bag I had been beating the shit out of a few minutes ago.
"Then stop thinking. Start moving. Don't let their voices drown out what you're here for. You're in control when you're here. Let that be enough."
His words hit me harder than any punch I'd thrown. Because the truth was, he was right. I didn't have to listen to them. I didn't have to carry that weight around if I didn't want to. But it was hard, so damn hard, to just let go.
I shook my head, rubbing my gloved hands together as the frustration bubbled up again. "It's not that easy," I growled. "You don't get it. You're not the one they say is worthless. You're worth something."
Chiron turned, his expression unreadable. He didn't argue. He never did. Instead, he just stepped forward and threw a punch into the air with a speed and precision that I could barely follow. "You're still here, aren't you? Still training. That's your answer, Lachlan. Stop worrying about what they think. Use that anger. Channel it."
I nodded, the words hitting me like a cold splash of water. But it wasn't enough. Not yet. The anger was still building, a slow burn deep inside of me, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to crack wide open.
I turned back to the bag, launching myself into another series of jabs and hooks, pushing my body harder than I ever had before. But even in the midst of the chaos, I could feel it. The weight of everything still pressing down, still trying to suffocate me.
And then, as I pulled back to take a breath, I saw her.
Ria.
She walked in, a quiet presence in the doorway, her eyes scanning the gym like she was trying to gauge the mood. She looked out of place, too calm for this space. My chest tightened. The last thing I wanted right now was someone else trying to talk to me, trying to fix me.
Her gaze flickered to me, and for a second, I almost thought she was going to say something. But before she could open her mouth, the words spilled out of me, sharp and venomous.
"What do you want?" I snapped, my voice louder than I meant it to be. I saw her flinch, her shoulders stiffening, but I didn't care.
Her brow furrowed, and she took a step closer, her eyes softening with concern. "Lachlan, I—"
"No," I interrupted, the frustration finally boiling over. "You don't get it. I'm not your damn charity case, okay? I don't need your pity or your 'words of wisdom.' Just—just stay out of it."
She recoiled like I'd slapped her, her face falling, and I could feel a pang of guilt rising in my chest. But it was too late. I couldn't take it back now. I could barely even recognize myself anymore. The anger, the frustration—it was all consuming, all I had left.
I turned away, not caring if she was standing there or not. I couldn't deal with it. Not tonight. Not with everything else crashing in on me.
Ria didn't say anything else. She just left.
And I stayed in the gym, alone with my thoughts, with the ache in my body, with the endless noise that wouldn't stop. I kept hitting the bag until my fists were raw and my body was exhausted, but none of it mattered. It didn't change anything. The darkness was still there, lurking just beneath the surface. And no matter how hard I fought, I didn't know if I was strong enough to keep it at bay.