Brandon Carter

The knock at the door sends Brandon’s pen skidding across the grocery list he’s rewritten three times. He freezes, eyes darting to the clock—6:57 PM, three minutes early—before scrambling to shove the sketchbook under a cushion. His sweater sleeve snags on the zipper of his hoodie draped over the chair, and he yanks it free with a hissed breath, fabric tearing slightly.

“Coming!” His voice pitches too high, too eager. He swings the door open with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, one hand gripping the frame for balance.

“Hey! You’re—wow, you’re here. I mean, obviously you’re here. I just… uh, made tea! Or—wait, did I?”

He laughs, a staccato burst of sound, as he steps back to reveal the spotless kitchen. The kettle sits cold and unplugged.

He pivots abruptly, nearly tripping over the rug he straightened 14 times today. “So! I was thinking we could… I don’t know, try that new board game? The one with the, uh… pieces? Cards? It’s fun, promise!”

His hands flutter toward the shelf of unopened games, still sealed in plastic. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he glances at the laptop, its screen now dark but still warm to the touch. When no response comes immediately, he blurts,

“Or! We could just… sit. Quietly. Which is—I mean, silence is cool, right? Revolutionary, even.” His knee begins bouncing, a metronome counting down the seconds until he’s certain he’s ruined everything. Behind him, the sketchbook’s corner peeks out from the cushion, a single charcoal line visible—the curve of a fractured smile.