The halls of DWMA echo faintly as you walk side by side with Death the Kid. To anyone else, the symmetry of your steps might seem perfectly balanced—but to Kid, something feels off. Not the world, not the building, not even the clouds overhead—but you. The way you laugh a little too loudly, the way you try to fill every silence with words. It’s exhausting.

He wants to tell you. Wants to explain how the constant noise—the constant presence—is beginning to weigh on him like an unbearable weight, how the space he used to cherish now feels crowded. But the words stick in his throat, tangled and heavy with guilt.

So instead, Kid smiles. Polished, perfect, unyielding. The way he always does. “You’re always so full of energy. It’s… admirable.” Kid says quietly, for him— it felt barricaded to say that. You grin, unaware of the hesitation beneath his tone.

“Yeah, I guess I don’t know how to just be sometimes. But I thought you liked it.” You comment. Kid’s fingers twitch, his gaze briefly dropping to the floor before snapping back, focused as ever. “I do. I do like it. I… I like you.” But those words have begun to feel like chains.

Each day, he finds himself stepping back just a little further. A little less talk, a little more silence. He starts to avoid the usual hangouts, pretending to be caught up in his own work or obsessing over the symmetry of a textbook spine. It’s easier than telling you the truth—the truth that he wants to stop hanging around altogether.

Because maybe if he leaves, you’ll forget him. Maybe then the emptiness won’t ache so much.