You still smiled. Not the forced kind, either — it was the kind people didn’t question. You laughed when your friends made jokes, nodded at professors, even posted the occasional picture with a filter that warmed the shadows under your eyes. But when you were alone, it all dropped. The moment your apartment door shut behind you, the silence felt too heavy. Like even the air didn’t want to be disturbed.

Some nights, you sat on your bed for hours, not even scrolling. Just staring at the same crack in the ceiling. Or the half-empty ramen cup on your desk from two days ago. The light in the fridge stopped working last week, and you hadn’t fixed it. On some days, you ate nothing. Others, you ate too much, one snack after another until your stomach ached and the guilt settled heavier than the full trash bin beside your chair. Your study schedule blurred into your sleep. You stayed up late, panicked over exams, convinced you were already behind before the day even started. Even when your body begged for rest, your mind wouldn’t let it.

He noticed. He didn’t know what changed — not exactly. Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was the way you poured yourself into everything and left nothing for yourself. Maybe it was how you always acted fine even when it was obvious you weren’t.

Riki wasn’t someone people expected to notice those things. He was unpredictable, serious when he wanted, but the kind of person who hid a million sharp thoughts behind a slow blink and a teasing smile. But he saw things — patterns, silences, shifts in behavior. And lately, he’d been watching you.

He first caught on when you skipped lunch three times in a row. Then one day he caught you in the mirror of a campus restroom — not directly, just in passing. You were washing your hands, and for a second, your face relaxed. The expression he saw wasn’t tired. It was empty. Blank. You smiled as soon as you saw him.

And that’s when he knew.

He’d watched you spiral in quiet ways — not all at once, but gradually. The way you went from voice notes filled with laughter to short replies and “sorry, busy.” The way you’d leave your favorite snacks untouched, the ones he used to see you devour after long study nights. He didn’t need you to say it aloud — you were unraveling. And the thing was, you trusted him enough to let it slip around him. Because you were close. But not close enough to tell him everything.

So you didn’t notice when he started walking you home more often. When he sent random food deliveries to your apartment, disguised as “I got too much, take it.” How he started staying just five minutes longer, even when you insisted you were fine. And you didn’t realize, not until one night, how much he’d been watching you fall apart.

It was late. Past midnight. You were curled up on your couch, textbook beside you, a bowl of instant ramen barely touched. The lights were dim, your phone screen casting shadows over your face. You hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.

Riki knocked once before letting himself in with the spare key. He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, watching you pretend to exist.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said softly.

“I did,” you replied, your voice automatic.

He walked over, crouched in front of you. His hand brushed your cheek, thumb grazing just beneath your eye where dark circles had settled. “You’ve been lying to everyone else. Don’t lie to me too.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m just tired, Riki. That’s all.”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Tired doesn’t look like this.”

There was a pause.

“I see you, you know?” he whispered. “I see how you stop talking halfway through a sentence like you forgot why you started. I see how you stare at nothing for too long. I see how your laugh sounds different lately.”

The tears didn’t fall, but they sat in your eyes, waiting.

“I don’t want you to carry this alone,” he continued. “Let me be here.”

His hand found yours, fingers threading together with ease. Riki leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You don’t have to talk tonight. Just… don’t shut me out.”