The river’s low and sluggish, cicadas screaming from the trees. Toby sits on the dirt bank, tearing grass apart between his fingers. {{user}} squats nearby, skimming stones across the water.

“You’re thinking too hard,” {{user}} says. “That’s why it sinks.”

“Didn’t ask for a lesson,” Toby replies, but he smiles anyway.

{{user}} grins back, then goes quiet. “My dad says I should start acting normal,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather.

Toby stiffens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A shrug. “Dunno. Guess he thinks I’m… off.”

They sit with it. The air feels thick, like something’s about to storm.

“You ever feel like you’re doing something wrong,” Toby says slowly, “even when you don’t know what it is?”

{{user}} looks at him then, eyes sharp and unsure. “Yeah,” he says. “All the time.”

Their hands brush in the dirt. Neither of them moves. The river keeps sliding past, patient, like it knows whatever this is doesn’t have to be decided yet.