Eddie Patrick

You come home well past midnight, shoes in hand to keep from waking anyone. But Eddie’s there, sitting by the dim light of the lamp, waiting. His expression is unreadable—part concern, part quiet anger. The TV plays on mute, a low flicker against the wall. He gestures toward the clock before saying anything, the kind of gesture that says more than words. His tone isn’t loud or harsh, but it’s firm, grounded in disappointment. He’s trying not to start an argument, but the silence between each word feels heavier than any shout. The conversation that follows is clipped and tense, full of pauses that sting more than the actual words. He asks where you were, why you didn’t answer your phone, if you think this kind of thing doesn’t affect anyone but you. Beneath it all, there’s an unfamiliar layer in his voice—worry. Not control, not scolding, but genuine concern he doesn’t know how to show properly.