FRANK ZHANG

The house feels smaller than you remember.

You stand in the middle of your bedroom, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, staring at the familiar walls that suddenly feel foreign. The room hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here—posters still cling to the walls in slightly crooked angles, the desk by the window is cluttered with old notebooks, and the bedspread your mortal parent insisted you keep still sits perfectly tucked over the mattress.

Everything is exactly the same.

And yet nothing feels the same at all.

Outside the bedroom door, the house creaks softly in the evening quiet. The muffled sound of someone crying drifts faintly from downstairs.

Your mortal parent.

Still sobbing after the shouting match.

You close your eyes for a moment, pressing your fingers against your forehead like that might somehow erase the sound.

It doesn’t.

You knew coming here would be difficult.

Stopping by your mortal home had never been part of the plan. When the quest to stop Gaia began spiraling into something larger and more dangerous than anyone had anticipated, the last thing you wanted was to revisit the place you had spent years trying to escape.

But eventually you’d convinced yourself you needed to.

A quick stop.

Grab a few things.

Check that everything was… fine.

You should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

The argument had started within minutes of walking through the door.

It always did.

Now the aftermath lingers in the air like smoke after a fire.

And standing across the room from you is Frank.

Your boyfriend.

The son of Mars looks wildly out of place in your childhood bedroom. His broad shoulders nearly block the doorway, and the faint scent of campfire smoke and leather clings to his clothes—a reminder of the world you both came from.

The world that makes this house feel even more suffocating.

Frank drags a hand down his face, clearly frustrated.

His usual calm patience is wearing thin.

“Why the hell were you arguing with them like that?” he says finally.

His voice isn’t loud.

But the tension in it makes your stomach twist.

Frank rubs his temples as if trying to physically massage away the situation.

“They were being so nice,” he continues, disbelief creeping into his tone. “And you practically bit their face off.”

Your jaw tightens.

Nice.

The word echoes in your head like an insult.

Frank doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen.

Or maybe he does and just doesn’t understand why.

From downstairs, another muffled sob drifts up through the floorboards.

Frank sighs heavily.

“They’re crying now,” he adds, like that’s proof of something important.

You stare at the floor.

Your chest feels tight.

Too tight.

The room seems quieter somehow, except for the sound of your pulse pounding faintly in your ears.

Frank shifts his weight near the door, clearly waiting for you to respond.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because if you start talking again, you’re not sure what will come out.

Finally, Frank breaks the silence.

“You can’t just talk to your parents like that,” he says, softer now but still firm. “They’re your parent. You have to show some respect.”

Something inside you cracks slightly.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

Respect.

Another word that feels like it’s scraping against your nerves.

The silence stretches.

Frank steps a little further into the room.

“I mean it,” he says. “Even if you’re mad, you don’t scream at them like that. That’s not okay.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

For a moment, you don’t trust yourself to speak.

Frank keeps going.

“They were trying to be nice to you,” he insists. “They were asking about camp, about how you were doing, and you just—”

“Stop.”

The word comes out quieter than expected.

Frank blinks.

“What?”

You shake your head slowly, staring at the floor.

“Just… stop.”

He exhales through his nose, frustration building again.

“I’m just saying you should’ve handled that better.”

Your chest rises sharply with a breath.

Frank doesn’t understand.

He wasn’t here for the years before camp.

He didn’t see the shouting matches.

The sudden mood swings.

The way kindness could flip into anger without warning.

He only saw five minutes of polite conversation downstairs.

Five minutes that meant nothing.

Frank crosses his arms.

“You should go apologize,” he says after a moment.

The suggestion lands like a stone in your chest.

Your head lifts slightly.

“What?”

“They’re upset,” Frank continues. “You should go down there and talk it out.”

Your vision blurs suddenly.

Your nails dig harder into your palms.

Frank takes your silence as stubbornness.

“Look, I know you’re stressed because of the quest,” he says, trying to sound reasonable. “But that doesn’t mean you take it out on your parent.”

The words feel like knives.

Your voice comes out small when you finally speak.

“Go away.”

Frank frowns.

“What?”

You shake your head again.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He sighs.

“We need to talk about it.”

Your throat tightens even further.

“Frank—”

“You can’t just ignore this,” he says.

Your voice drops even quieter.

“Please.”

Frank pauses.

Your shoulders tremble slightly, though you try to hide it.

“Go away,” you repeat softly. “I don’t wanna talk to you.”

The words hang heavily in the room.

Frank stares at you.

For a moment, irritation flickers across his face again.

Then something shifts.

He finally notices the way your breathing has changed.

The way your hands are shaking.

The way your eyes stay locked stubbornly on the floor.

Frank’s expression softens slowly.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

Realization begins creeping into his voice.

“…Hey.”

You shake your head again quickly, like you don’t want him to say anything else.

But your eyes sting now.

The tears you’d been fighting since the argument are dangerously close.

Frank hesitates.

The tension drains from his posture.

“…I didn’t mean to make it worse,” he says quietly.

You still don’t look at him.

Because if you do, the tears will fall.

And you refuse to cry in front of him.

Downstairs, the sobbing continues faintly.

Frank glances toward the door.

Then back at you.

The son of Mars rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“…I thought I was helping,” he admits.

You say nothing.

Frank shifts his weight again.

The room feels smaller by the second.

Finally he steps closer, though carefully this time.

“…Do you want me to leave?”

Your voice barely rises above a whisper.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Frank nods slowly.

“Okay.”

He turns toward the door.

Then hesitates.

“…If you change your mind,” he adds quietly, “I’m right downstairs.”

The door opens softly.

And then it closes.

Leaving you alone in the room that never quite felt like home.