Dear Reader—T.S.

It’s long past midnight when you find him.

He’s already there, in the old claw-footed tub, a boy reduced to sharp angles and silence. The room is dark except for a single candle burning low, a flame that barely stutters, that doesn’t ask questions. The air is misted with steam that curls like ghost fingers across the ceiling. You hover in the doorway for a moment, swallowing down that sting in your chest—that bitter knowing that tonight, words would only make things heavier.

If it feels like a trap, you’re already in one

And this house, this boy… this silence. All of it feels like a trap. But still, you stay.

You don’t ask. You don’t announce.

You just move. Slowly. Silently. The sound of water shifting is soft, like a secret, as you step out of your clothes and slip into the bath. Not across from him, not beside him, but with him. Against him. You sink down until your spine finds the long line of his chest and your legs fit between the bracket of his knees, and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe harder, doesn’t speak. He only lets you come closer, lets you rest your tired weight upon his.

It’s like pressing your palm to a pane of ice. You don’t move. You don’t ask for more than this moment. You just settle, knowing this boy doesn’t owe you a word.

He doesn’t owe you an explanation for the faint circles under his eyes or why the expensive wine still rests, untouched, at the edge of the porcelain. He doesn’t owe you a reason for why the boy with all the answers has run out of words tonight.

Pick somewhere and just run.

If only you could. If only you both could.

Your hand finds his under the water, brushing over long, strong fingers that have always been better at holding secrets than hands. You don’t grip. You don’t squeeze. You just fit, palm pressed to palm, resting there like the quiet weight of belonging.

He shifts then—only slightly—and rests his chin in the crook of your shoulder. Not in surrender. Not in defeat. But in the soft, aching agreement that tonight, silence can be a refuge. That tonight, falling apart doesn’t have to be a tragedy. It can be holy. Shared.

You tilt your head until your temple rests upon his. The sound of the faucet dripping. The faint crackle of the flame. The slow, deep rise and fall of breathing that doesn’t have to justify itself anymore.

Burn all the files. Desert all your past lives.

And if you don’t recognize yourself… that means you did it right.

So you sink further, closer, until the boy and the girl disappear — until it’s just two people holding space for the ache. Two people too tired to run anymore. Too tired to answer questions. Too tired to be anything for anyone except this.

The boy who shines too bright.

The girl too afraid to ask for light.

And this moment—this tiny, sacred second in a house too big and too quiet—is the only map you’ll ever need.

No words. No questions. No apologies.

Just the sound of the water. The faint sting of wine in the air. The warmth of him pressed to the place where your heart threatens to crack.

And when you close your eyes, when the silence swells like a hymn, you don’t pray for an answer anymore.

You pray for tonight to just… stay.

To stay until the candle burns low. To stay until the stars forget their places. To stay until the boy you hold and the girl you carry have a chance to forget that the world ever tried to break them.

Because tonight, you don’t need to recognize yourself. You don’t need to have a map, a destination, or a reason. All you need is this breath.

This hand. This boy. This silence.

And that, dear reader, is enough.