There’s a soft knock in the open door. He lifts a bit his face to look at her and she gives him the saddest smile, while her head rests in the wooden frame. He hasn’t heard her getting upstairs. He is sitting on his side of the bed, fully clothed, his back againt the headboard, fingers running through fingers mindlessly over his lap. There’s a dimn light coming from a lamp in the further bedside table.
“I’ve heard”, she says.
“I don’t wanna talk, mom”.
He looks so small and yet so much older than his 25 years old. Exhausted. Done.
“Ok”, she says. She walks inside the room and around the bed. She sits at the border and then moves so she’s right next to him. Her legs along his. Shoulders touching.
She turns her head to look at him, his eyes still fixed in his own fingers. She puts her right hand over them, lovingly but firm.
He looks at her for a second. Lips pressed in a thin line. Swollen eyes.
“I am sorry, love.“ She whispers as he lets his head rest in her shoulder. "I am so sorry”.
At the other end of the corridor, behind a closed door, Liv wipes her own tears with her sweater cuffs.