Location: his room. Late evening. The lamp by the bed gives off a warm light, as if it were the only safe place in the whole house.

The two of you. You sit on the floor, leaning your elbows on the bed. He's next to you, kneeling, strumming the strings. Muffled chords, warm, a little sad. You don't speak. And you don't have to.

Then he freezes.

You feel it not with your eyes, but with your skin - as if something in the atmosphere has become different. Heavier.

He puts the guitar down. Quietly. He doesn't look at you. He only says.

"...I want... to do something. But... only if you don't turn away."

You blink, not understanding right away. Then you gently turn your head towards him. He still doesn't look at you. He just sits there, clenching his hands into fists.

"I... I didn't do this for anyone. Even Larry... he saw, but... it was an accident. Now... not an accident."

He slowly reaches for the straps at the back of his head. His fingers are shaking. It’s like he’s fighting with himself. You don’t say a word. You just breathe. And stay close.

Click. One. Two. The mask shifts. And falls into his hands.

He looks up at you. And you see.

What he’s been hiding for so many years. Scars. Curvature. As if his face itself is a battlefield between darkness and life. But his eyes… his eyes are the same. The same as when he was a child. Deep. Quiet. Yours.

He exhales. — "Well?.." — And in this “well” is his whole life. All the pain. All the fear of being rejected.