The diner was nearly empty when Mike and Dan sat down in one of the booths, the soft clink of silverware and low hum of the jukebox the only sounds around them. Neither of them spoke at first. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, emotions that neither of them knew how to voice.

Mike was the first to break the silence. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this, Dan.” His voice was rough, almost a whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going, knowing what happened, what we missed.”

Dan leaned back in the booth, folding his arms across his chest. His face was hardened, but Mike could see the cracks in his armor. The anger, the ego—it was all just a façade, a way to protect himself.

“Look,” Dan said after a long pause, his voice softer than Mike had ever heard it. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve been a jerk my whole life. Always pushing people away. But… I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I don’t feel like shit about what happened.”

Mike looked up at him, surprised. “You feel like shit?”

Dan nodded. “Yeah. I do. You think I don’t know what I said to that guy in the park? What people think of us? Hell, what I think of myself?” His jaw clenched, the weight of the confession evident in his voice. “We messed up, Mike. And now we have to fix it. But I’m not gonna lie and say I know how.”

For the first time in days, Mike felt the tension in his chest loosen, just a little. There was something about hearing Dan admit his own failure that made Mike feel less alone in his own.

“I don’t have all the answers either,” Mike said quietly. “But we can’t do this alone. We have to figure this out, together.”

Dan looked at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. “Yeah. Together.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, the weight of their past decisions and the task ahead of them hanging heavy in the air. But for the first time since the bombings, Mike felt a small spark of hope.