As we sit and watch tv, my eyes wonder to the sweet giant.

The space between us had grown cold, as he picked his spot seated furthest away from me.

He needs to let this sink in, his mother had said. She told my how clays mind can run wild. His adhd wil, stop showing in how he does things, and retreat to the safety and danger that is his mind. He'll overthink, and he'll write random words down.

His mom told me about how when he stressed over something, or got scared about something when he was younger, she would find sticky notes everywhere, especially his room. Terrifyingly covered in colored paper. She had read his thoughts, she said, and her expression saddened.

They were self-destructive.

'He's not good at getting what he wants.' Her words had said. 'But he's working on it.'

It just needed time.
Let him get used to the idea that I may not want this child.

Its hard for him to improve himself when around others,
Having retreated into his bedroom at the time, his cube of safety.

His mother's words were passionate as she spoke of her eldest son.
She looked proud and burdened by how she had to watch him suffer form his own mind.

Write it out,
Talk it dead.

Two options of which I haven't seen either.
Or I haven't helped him.

'He must have tried to stop the habit of writing down.

He must have.... made his mind his room of safety, that once was his bedroom.'

I will try to work this out, help him, I had told her.
I'll make him write, and talk till he can't anymore.

I realized how I avoided conversation while he needed it in order to protect himself.

Fighting with himself.

The three words echo in my mind. These are the words that stuck to me most.
Self destructive.
Fighting himself.
He had never spoken of it before, making me doubt how much I actually know about him.

'I'll change this, I promise.'
The promise slipped from my mouth before I could take it back.
I may be trying to touch something buried deep under the ground at my feet.

And the last thing I want to do is dig up skeletons.