The flickering streetlights outside cast long shadows on the walls of Dean's apartment. He sat alone in his dimly lit living room, staring blankly at the coffee table. The conversation with Sara earlier that week played on a loop in his mind, her warm smile and easy laughter contrasting sharply with the darkness he carried inside.
Dean had mastered the art of appearing composed, of pretending that everything was fine. But the truth was far from it. Beneath the surface, a storm raged—a storm born from a night he could never forget.
It had started as one of the best days of his childhood. Dean was ten years old, carefree, and blissfully unaware of how fragile happiness could be. His parents had taken him to the park that evening, a rare treat since his father often worked late.
"Dean, catch!" his father, Michael, called, tossing a frisbee across the grass.
Dean laughed as he caught it, running back toward his father. His mother, Clara, sat on a nearby bench, smiling as she watched them play. The air was filled with the sound of children laughing, the rustle of leaves, and the scent of freshly cut grass.
"Can we get ice cream on the way home?" Dean asked, his eyes wide with excitement.
His mother ruffled his hair. "Of course, sweetheart. Anything for you."
That night, as they walked back to their house, Dean felt like the luckiest boy in the world.
The moment they stepped through the front door, everything changed.
The house was eerily silent, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound. At first, Dean didn't notice anything unusual. But then his father froze, his gaze fixed on the shattered glass scattered across the living room floor.
"Clara, take Dean and go outside," Michael whispered, his voice tight with fear.
Before they could move, two masked men emerged from the shadows, one holding a gun, the other wielding a knife.
"What do you want?" Michael asked, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
"Everything," one of the men sneered. "Money, jewelry, whatever you've got."
Clara clutched Dean tightly, her trembling hands covering his ears. But it wasn't enough to block out the sound of the gunshot that followed.
Dean watched in horror as his father collapsed to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. His mother screamed, a sound so raw and primal that it still haunted Dean's dreams.
"Please, don't hurt us," Clara begged, shielding Dean with her body.
But the robbers showed no mercy. The second man lunged forward, his knife glinting in the dim light. Clara's cries were silenced in an instant, leaving Dean paralyzed with terror.
He wanted to move, to scream, to fight back. But his body refused to obey. All he could do was stare as his world fell apart in front of him.
The robbers fled, leaving behind a scene of devastation. Dean sat frozen on the floor, his parents' lifeless bodies lying inches away. The silence was deafening.
It wasn't until the neighbors arrived, alerted by the gunshot, that Dean finally snapped out of his daze. A woman wrapped him in a blanket and whispered soothing words, but they didn't register.
The next few days passed in a blur. The police questioned him, social workers tried to comfort him, and distant relatives came to take care of the arrangements. But nothing could erase the images burned into his mind.
Dean was sent to live with his aunt, a kind but distant woman who didn't know how to handle a grieving child. He withdrew into himself, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Nights were the hardest. He would wake up screaming, his dreams plagued by the sound of his mother's cries and the sight of his father's bloodied face.
School became a battleground. Dean's classmates didn't understand his pain, and their attempts to include him felt hollow. He lashed out at anyone who tried to get too close, his anger a shield against the unbearable weight of his grief.
The PTSD took root early. Loud noises made him flinch, and the sight of blood—no matter how small—triggered debilitating panic attacks.
As he grew older, Dean learned to hide his pain. He threw himself into academics, using his studies as a way to escape the memories that haunted him. He developed a tough exterior, determined never to let anyone see how broken he truly was.
Therapy helped, but only to a point. The sessions forced him to confront his trauma, and while they gave him tools to cope, the scars remained.
"Your parents would be proud of you," his therapist once said.
Dean wanted to believe that. But the guilt of surviving when they hadn't was a weight he carried every day.
Now, years later, Dean sat alone in his apartment, staring at a family photo he kept hidden in a drawer. His parents smiled back at him, frozen in time, oblivious to the tragedy that would tear them away from him.
Meeting Sara had been… unexpected. There was something about her—a warmth, an openness—that made him want to let his guard down. But could he?
Dean clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. Letting someone in meant risking more pain, more loss. And he wasn't sure he could survive that again.
But as he looked at the photo one last time before tucking it away, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years: hope.