Those were the nights, or days when the mind refused to cooperate and the hands followed suit. Cuts, drugs, alcohol—your environment was a reflection of your destruction, mirroring the chaos within. Henry gripped the wheel of his car, flexing his fingers as he stared at the red light glowing in the autumn evening. The streets were empty, but your mind was anything but. He had left the dinner with Bunny and Richard early, something told him he should, or maybe it was just knowing you. The way you unraveled when the strings snapped, or worse, when they loosened. The broken violin, crying, singing, and self-harming all at once.

The light turned green, and the car moved, almost on its own, toward your apartment. He knew your address, of course—he’d spent as much time there as Camilla, Francis, and the others. Late-night study sessions, or breakdowns that ended with you locked in your bedroom. That apartment was a playground of harm, nostalgia, and everything in between.

Henry parked his car, not rushing but his steps were long, purposeful as he reached the stairwell. Up, up. He didn’t knock. He just stepped inside. And there you were, lost in the suffocating reality of your own making, tearing apart your mind or your wrist—whatever felt like it would stop the screaming inside. Cigarette burns dotted your skin like some twisted decoration, and the cuts—glowing like beams of light—etched your suffering for all to see.

He found you, but he didn’t say a word. He simply kneeled down beside you, the scent of burning leaves almost soothing in the cold night air. The warmth of his coat brushed against you as he reached out, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing your head. He leaned back against the wall, sitting beside you, his eyes locked on yours. Those were the nights, and he was there.

“Come back,” Henry murmured, his voice calm, a quiet anchor in the storm. He offered no grand gestures, just his steady presence.