Carl sat cross-legged on the floor of {{user}}’s room, head bowed as she sat behind him on the edge of her bed, carefully undoing the tight braids he’d worn for weeks. The late afternoon sun filtered through her curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the floor. It was quiet except for the occasional rustle of hair between her fingers and the low hum of a song playing faintly from her phone speaker.

She didn’t say much at first, just worked methodically — fingers nimble, touch familiar. She’d done this for him before. When they were kids. When life was simpler. When he wasn’t walking around trying to be someone else.

Every time a braid came undone, he felt a little more like himself. A little more real. A little less heavy.

“I know,” he murmured softly, his voice low, almost apologetic. “I know.”

His breathing was slow, tuned into the sound of her voice as she rambled on — half amused, half exasperated — about how grateful she was that he wasn’t trying to act “gangster” anymore. She’d always hated that phase. The false bravado. The hard exterior. The way he shut people out