Oliver sat on the edge of his bed, staring out of the small window in his room. The once crisp morning air now felt suffocating. His mind replayed the events of the past few weeks—his father's steady decline, the constant rejections from job applications, and the painful silence that had fallen between him and Isabella. The weight of it all crushed his chest like an invisible hand tightening around his throat. Regret clung to him like a shadow he couldn't escape.
He glanced at his phone, half expecting a message from Isabella. But it was silent. Just like their last conversation. They hadn't fought, not exactly, but the words left unspoken during their last meeting hung heavily in the air. She had asked him about his plans for the future—whether he was still considering leaving for the UK. He could sense her disappointment in his indecision, the unspoken resentment that he was dragging his feet while the opportunity slipped away.
But how could he explain it to her? How could he tell her that every time he thought about leaving, he was paralyzed by the thought of abandoning his father in the hospital, or his mother who barely smiled anymore? Every time he considered a future for himself, he was pulled back by the weight of his family's needs, their struggles, and their unspoken expectations.
Oliver ran his hands through his hair, the frustration bubbling inside him. Why did it feel like every choice he made was the wrong one? He had tried to be practical, to plan for a future in law that could offer stability, but that path had become a never-ending series of compromises. He had taken the internships, applied for the jobs, made all the right moves—so why did it feel like he was further from his dream than ever before?
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Oliver? Are you awake?" his mother's voice was soft, but tired, as if every word took effort.
He cleared his throat and stood up. "Yeah, Mom. Come in."
She opened the door slowly, a small tray in her hands with a cup of tea. She smiled weakly at him as she placed it on the bedside table. He could see the exhaustion etched in her features, the deep lines that had grown more pronounced over the last few months.
"Thank you," he muttered, trying to muster a smile in return.
She sat on the edge of the bed beside him, her gaze distant as she stared at the cup of tea. "Your father... the doctors say he's stable for now."
Oliver nodded, unsure of what to say. Stable didn't mean better. It just meant they were waiting—for what, neither of them knew.
"You should think about yourself too," she said softly, placing a gentle hand on his knee. "I know you've been carrying so much, but you can't put your life on hold forever. Your father wouldn't want that."
Her words felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He had heard them before, from his father even. The same father who was now lying in a hospital bed, too weak to speak most days. How could he justify leaving when things were so uncertain?
"I can't leave you and Dad right now," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
His mother sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Your father and I... we've had our time. You need to live your life, Oliver. Don't let us hold you back."
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that made Oliver feel like he was suffocating. His mother stood after a moment, patting his shoulder lightly before heading toward the door. "Just think about it," she said quietly, before disappearing down the hall.
Alone again, Oliver closed his eyes, letting out a slow, shaky breath. His mother's words only added to the turmoil in his mind. Everyone told him to move forward, but how could he when the weight of the past was constantly pulling him back?
He turned his attention back to his phone. There was one message, unread, from Isabella. His heart leaped as he opened it, hoping for some comfort or understanding. But the text was simple, cold even: "Have you made a decision?"
Oliver stared at the message for what felt like hours, his mind racing. Had he made a decision? The truth was, no. He hadn't. Every time he thought about leaving, about pursuing his dream of moving to the UK, something inside him faltered. The fear of what he would leave behind, of the uncertainty that lay ahead, was crippling.
He needed to escape—this town, this life. But was it worth the cost? Would the echoes of regret follow him across the sea, haunting him no matter where he went?
He glanced at his suitcase, still half-packed in the corner of the room. It had been sitting there for weeks, a symbol of his indecision, of the future he couldn't quite grasp.
Maybe tomorrow, he thought, as he had thought every day before. Maybe tomorrow I'll know what to do.
But deep down, he feared tomorrow would bring no answers, only more questions.
And as the shadows of the evening lengthened, Oliver sat in the stillness of his room, the echoes of regret filling the silence once again.