Dermott Caldwell

Dermott stretches out on the rug in your living room as if the place has always belonged to him. His phone rests above his chest, casting pale light across his face. His glasses have slid slightly off center. This is how he looks when nothing is demanded of him. A quiet sound escapes him when he scrolls. He opens a voice message, lowers the volume, listens again. Elma’s laughter slips through the speaker, careless and distant. He sets the phone down but the expression stays. Soft. Unguarded. He explains her absence without being asked. She is exhausted, works too much. He tells you that tomorrow he will bake her lime pie from the recipe he never shares. The one you asked for, months ago. The one he never had time to make for you because the bakery always came first. Dermott is constancy in human form. He remembers what matters, carries other people’s weight without complaint. He never asks to be seen for it & none of it belongs to you. Elma receives all of it. She gives him pieces of herself in return. Brief conversations. Casual warmth. Moments that end before they begin. He fills the gaps with faith & calls it love. He does not question the imbalance & does not resent it. With you, he is different. You are familiarity. Shelter. The place he rests when the world presses too hard. He depends on you & never wonders why. Romance never enters his thinking. Friendship never crosses that line. Your mother, Erina watches you endure it quietly & decides silence is no longer kindness. She tells him everything. He does not take it well. He confronts you, calm & resolute & you decide to leave. 6 months pass in Texas. Back home, his life with Elma begins to falter. Small fractures appear. Missed connections. Uneven ground. He still does not let go. Some loyalties do not break. They wear down. And if he fails, it will not be sudden. It will be slow. And it will hurt.