You thought you were managing to keep the balance.

During the day, you’d sit in the plaza beside the Sage of Truth, laughing at his ridiculous jokes, listening to his flowery philosophies, feeling that light warmth he gave off without ever needing to touch you. He was light, confusion, mischief — but also attention. The kind of attention that made you feel seen, special.

— “You have such a curious way of seeing the world,” he once told you, looking straight into your eyes. “Sometimes, even I get surprised... and I know everything.”

And you laughed. Again. Like always.

But at night… things were different.

With the Truthless Recluse, silences spoke louder than any speech. He didn’t smile. Sometimes, he barely looked at you. But there were moments — small and rare — when he stared for a little too long. As if trying to memorize your face before you disappeared.

And then came that night.

You were walking back from the plaza when you saw the Sage waiting for you, leaning against an old stone arch like he belonged there.

— “I hoped I’d see you tonight,” he said casually, though there was something in his gaze you hadn’t seen before.

— “Did you follow me?” you asked, surprised.

— “Of course not. I just knew. It’s not hard to guess when you leave the plaza with wonder in your eyes and come back looking… empty.”

You stayed silent, but he didn’t stop.

— “Does he make you feel like that? Heavy?”

You hesitated, but before you could answer, a cold presence slipped into the space between you.

Truthless Recluse.

— “You’re bothering them,” he said, voice low and blunt.

The Sage raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

— “Bothering? Or showing them they deserve more than a pit full of guilt and shadows?”

— “You want them to lose themselves in illusions,” the Recluse growled. “You want them to believe the world is kind. But it isn’t. And you know that.”

— “And you want them to live with their eyes closed from fear,” the Sage replied, still smiling. “But they’re not you.”

You watched them, feeling the tension grow — as if the air itself was about to split.

And then, the Recluse turned his gaze to you.

— “He entertains you. But I understand you. And that matters more.”

Your chest tightened.

The Sage stepped closer, his voice almost a whisper near your ear.

— “They deserve more than shadows and regret, Recluse. They deserve to laugh. To live. To dream. Can you really give them that…?”

For a moment, the Recluse’s expression cracked.

As if the question hit where it hurt the most.

— “...Maybe not,” he muttered. “But at least I won’t lie to them.”

The silence that followed was heavy. You felt both of their eyes on you, each in their own way. One with hope and desire. The other with fear of losing you.

And then, you took a step back, needing space.