“You ever think none of this matters because none of it’s real?” He says it like it’s casual. Like “pass the lighter” or “wanna ditch school.” But it lands different—like the air goes still for a second. You blink, half-laughing because he has to be messing with you.

“You’re weird,” you say, nudging him with your socked foot.

Patrick doesn’t nudge back. Doesn’t smile. Just keeps looking at the ceiling, fingers twitching at the hem of his sleeve like he’s itching to pull something apart.

“I’m serious,” he says. “None of this matters. None of it’s real. I made it up.”

You freeze. “…Made what up?”

He finally looks at you. And it’s not a joke. Not a bit. His eyes are steady, eerie in the dark. “This. You. Everything. You’re just part of it.” He shrugs, like he’s telling you the weather report. “Sometimes I forget. But then I remember, and it’s like…yeah. Right. This is all mine.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because you’ve heard Patrick say a lot of messed-up things. But this? This is something else