lakeside

by Zary Fekete

Under my hands, the kitchen table wobbles.

Or maybe it’s me.

The plate in front of him glows under the overhead light with the untouched food cooling into still life. My son sits opposite, his shoulders drawn in, the bones of his wrists pale against the dark sleeves of his sweatshirt. He moves a fork back and forth, not eating. He hasn’t touched anything for fifteen minutes. The clock ticks steadily, like doom.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” I say. “I can make something else.”

He shrugs without looking up.

“I’m just not hungry.”

The words land softly, like feathers, but they weigh everything down.

Behind him, the refrigerator hums. The air smells faintly of kimchi and detergent. I catch my reflection in the window…tired face, half-shadowed… aching from the held-back emotions I know I can’t give in to. It’s what his counselor has told me. So, I just take a breath and hold it. My chair creaks a little, as though it, too, seems to whisper restraint.

“Maybe just try another bite,” I say, too lightly.

He presses the tines of his fork into the rice, sculpting small ridges, ruining grains. “I said I’m fine.”

The tone is quiet but solid…a newly built wall. I nod, as if I believe him. The dryer in the next room kicks on, and the silverware trembles slightly. He’s wearing many layers…hoodie, long johns t-shirt, undershirt, but I can still see the fine ridges of his collarbone like dead wood in shallow water.

When he finally pushes his chair back, it chirps against the linoleum.

“I have homework,” he says.

I want to stop him. To pull him back to the table. But I’ve learned that every word can be a flare…too bright, too alarming…and he’ll sink out of sight again. So, I only nod, and he disappears down the hall. The plate remains, untouched.

Later that night, I hear the soft click of the bathroom door. I wait. I try to read, but the words blur. I hear the water run, then stop. The silence is longer than it should be. I think about all the things I’ve Googled in the past months: calorie counts, adolescent recovery rates, warning signs, treatment centers. The endless depths beneath the calm surface of his “I’m fine.”

When the door opens, he slips past my doorway, his face pale and determined.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

The sound of that word…flat, practiced…makes me think of the lake near my childhood home, where the water always looked smooth until you stepped in and your legs tangled in weeds. I remember once, as a boy, diving after my cousin’s ball and feeling something wrap around my ankle. Panic. Darkness. Then my father’s arm pulling me up, coughing, furious, saved.

Now I am the one on the dock.

And my son is under the water.

At his next appointment, the doctor says, “He’s stable. That’s something.”

Stable feels like a word for boats…something that floats but could still capsize.

Driving home, we don’t talk. The radio murmurs low. My son’s gaze is fixed on the blur of passing houses. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, as if holding something invisible.

At a stoplight, I risk a glance. He’s thinner than last month. I can see it even though I’m not supposed to notice. His profile is sharp, his jawline cut clean. I remember the toddler version of him… round-faced, laughing as he ate ice cream. The change feels like a trick of light, as if he’s slipping backward into air.

When we get home, he goes to his room. I sit in the car a few extra seconds, listening to the engine cool, to my own heartbeat tapping at my ribs. I want to scream, to call his name, to throw the plate against the wall. Instead, I whisper something quieter: “Please.”

That evening, I find him sitting on his bed, swiping through his phone. Perfect bodies of dancers and models glide across the screen, flickering in his eyes. I knock on the doorframe.

“Want some tea?” I ask.

He looks up, eyes wide, cautious. “What kind?”

“Ginger.”

He hesitates. Then nods. “Okay.”

It feels like permission. A crack of light in the wall.

In the kitchen, the kettle takes forever to boil. Steam clouds the window. I imagine myself diving again…not into water this time, but into his small gesture of invitation. I bring the mug back to his room. He accepts it carefully, as if it might break.

“Thanks.”

He sips slowly, and I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe. The air feels warmer here, almost safe. He looks older than he should, but there’s still something of that boy who used to jump onto my back for a ride around the yard. I realize I’m holding my own breath, waiting for something to tell me he’ll come back.

When he finishes, he hands me the empty mug.

I nod. “Good?”

He looks at me for a long moment, as if weighing whether to say more. Then he reaches for his phone again. I take the mug and rise, but before I leave, I glance once more at his thin hands, long fingers paging on the screen.

In the hallway, I pause. The hum of the house feels like a pulse again. In the kitchen, the table still holds the uneaten dinner from earlier. I scrape it into the trash, rinse the plate, watch the food dissolve into the drain. For a second I see his face reflected in the water’s surface…blurred, shifting, alive.

I think of that old feeling under the lake, of weeds around my ankle, of being pulled up into light.

Maybe love isn’t about rescue after all. Maybe it’s about staying close enough to reach if they call.

I turn off the tap. The pipes groan softly, like an old dock in the wind.

Photo of Zary Fekete

BIO: Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and currently lives in Tokyo. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (The Written Path: A Journey Through Sobriety and Scripture) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social