The way you said I love you, not to me.
The neighbors invited Dakkan over to play with their daughter again, probably because they saw the stagnant loneliness in the house a mile away. Dakkan declined. First of all, he needed Dad's permission, and second of all, Dad didn't give or say much anymore. It wasn't a new development, either. He'd been that way even before Mom got too sick to leave the bed.
Dakkan debated on making himself lunch before the sun rose too high. Their house remained small and empty and quiet. He decided against it. He wasn't hungry enough for that. Later, he'd pry open the pantry and make a sandwich to eat by himself at the deserted table, but not yet. Their dried salmon still looked good.
The idea of dessert for lunch all day every day tempted Dakkan, but the dream wasn't all it'd been cracked up to be, much to his disappointment. After eating the remaining sweet bread and candied minnows for a week straight, and realizing that it left him grumpy and hungry and only drew Dad's scolding–if Dad noticed–Dakkan gave up on the idea.
Dakkan crept to the back of the house. He held his breath in the fear that someone would hear him, and he'd Get In Trouble, for one reason or another. The door to his parents' bedroom was cracked open. He peeked in.
The windows were half closed. Light poured in from their open half and leaked through the shutters. Mom lay in their hammock. It was what she always did now, Dakkan thought, when she didn't have the energy to make it to the table. A dull red blanket covered her. Dakkan barely made out the rise and fall of her chest. He'd gotten used to the sight. The mention of 'mother' summed up the image of a still head on a pillow and a tail poking out from beneath a sheet.
Dad sat next to her. Dakkan supposed that his weight was shifting the hammock, but it didn't look like it. Dad was stern, and intimidating, but mostly he just looked stiff and not there and didn't take up much space. Sometimes his eyes looked the same as those of the candied minnows Dakkan ate: glazed, and not really present.
He had that look on his face now. Dakkan glimpsed it when he turned his head. Dakkan didn't know how someone could manage to change so little but also change so much.
Mom stirred. Dad's gaze flickered down, and for once, most of the glaze went away.
"Where's Dakkan?" Mom's voice was a mutter. She held herself like flower petals after they landed in water and then started softening and rotting.
"He's in the kitchen," Dad said. "He's fine."
Mom's hand drifted to touch his. Dad met her three-fourths of the way there. He wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed.
"Good," Mom said.
Dad leaned in and bumped his forehead to hers and murmured something, and the worst part for Dakkan was that he knew what it was, rare and precious and not for him, but even then the "I love you" sounded dim and half-dead.
Dakkan scampered down the hall and fled out the door. He'd visit the neighbor after all.