It started with something small.

You and Touya were thirteen, walking home like always—shoulder to shoulder, sharing a half-eaten bag of chips. You nudged him with your elbow, teasing, “You’ve been broody all week. What, did your hair get singed again?”

He didn’t laugh.

You blinked, trying again. “C’mon, Hothead. That was a little funny.”

Touya suddenly stopped walking.

You turned. “What? Don’t tell me you’re actually mad—”

“Why do you act like everything’s fine?” he snapped.

You froze.

His tone wasn’t playful. It was sharp. Frayed. Not the usual eye-roll Touya. Not even the grumpy, tired version of him.

This was different.

“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off.

“You don’t get it. You go home to people who see you. Who care. You talk about the future like it’s something we’re actually gonna have.” His voice cracked, eyes glassy with something close to fury. “I’m not gonna make it that far. And you just pretend like—like this is some normal, happy little life.”

You felt your chest tighten. “I’m not pretending—”

“Yes, you are,” he hissed. “You talk like I’m gonna be okay. Like we’re gonna be okay. But I’m not. You can’t fix me with dumb jokes and snacks, alright?”

His words landed heavy, like a door slamming shut between you.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the boy who used to set things on fire just to watch them glow. Now he was the one burning, and he was burning you with him.

“…I never said I could fix you,” you whispered. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you were alone.”

Touya didn’t answer. He just stood there, fists clenched, breathing hard.

Then he turned and walked off.

You didn’t follow—not that day. And the first time you realized how easily silence can sound like betrayal.