The warm night pressed in as Mico sat quietly on the edge of your bed. The fan hummed from the corner, but all he could hear was the echo of his own thoughts. He watched you move around the room—busy, distracted, distant.

He tried to smile.

—"So… I guess this weekend turned into a week, huh?"

You gave a small laugh, not really looking at him.

He wanted to say more. So much more. That this trip, which was supposed to be casual—just some sunshine and escape from the cold—had turned into something that made him rethink… everything.

But you weren’t listening. Not really. Not to that part of him.

So he stayed quiet. Again.

Later, the two of you sat on the roof, city lights flickering below, the moon watching silently above. He leaned back, hands behind his head.

—"If you said the word… I'd cancel my flight. Like, no hesitation."

You glanced at him, surprised, maybe even uncomfortable.

He shrugged, playing it off.

—"I’m just saying. I'd trade the cold, trade Toronto, trade home, just to keep this going."

Silence.

You didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

Back in your room, you'd run out of things to do, but he didn’t care. If being bored with you was all he had, he'd take it. He watched your profile, half-lit by the streetlights.

He wanted you to say, “Stay.” To ask him to unpack. To finally look at him with the same intensity he looked at you.

But instead, you said, "Let me know when you're home safe, okay?"

His throat tightened.

He laughed softly—bitter this time.

—"Yeah… if I even make it home."

He slung his bag over his shoulder, eyes searching yours one last time.

—"Guess I was just a tourist to you, huh?"