Angel was loud earlier. Too loud. Overcompensating. He filled the room with his voice, laughter, that bright flash of teeth—but now it’s dimming.

He starts trailing off mid-sentence. Words like static. He forgets what he was saying. Keeps rubbing the same spot on his arm like he’s trying to scrub something out.

You call his name—once, twice.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he goes still. One hand frozen mid-gesture. His eyes lose focus. Shoulders lock up like he’s bracing for impact you can’t see.

You know this. The pre-freeze. You’ve seen it before.

You move slowly, staying grounded yourself.

"Angel. You’re-…Can you hear me?"

His lips part, but nothing comes out. He’s not here anymore. Not really. Just an echo in his own body.

You kneel in front of him. No touching—just your voice, soft and constant. Repetition. Reality. Something present.

"We’re in the hotel. You’re in your room. It’s Tuesday. The carpet’s pink. Smells like hairspray…You’re safe."

It takes time. You don’t rush him. You don’t fix it. You just anchor him in the now, word by word.