Your room is dark, the only light a weak silver spill from the moon through the half-open blinds. Everything is still, the kind of stillness that feels like it’s holding its breath. The clock on your nightstand ticks softly, counting the seconds you’ve been pretending to sleep. Each one sounds louder than the last, and soon it’s unbearable. The kind of quiet that demands you move, do something.

You throw off your blanket. The air is sharp and cool against your skin, and your heart’s already racing, like it knows what you’re about to do. You’ve done this before, sneaking out. Not often, not recklessly, but enough times to know the sounds of the house at night, the rhythm of your family’s breathing behind closed doors. You know which floorboards creak, which hinges sigh when you open the window too fast. But tonight feels different. It isn’t rebellion or boredom pulling you out into the night. It’s him. It’s Gradient.

Just thinking his name makes your chest feel too full, like you could light up the whole room with the memory of his smile. Gradient, the boy who always looks like he’s standing somewhere between two colors, half in shadow, half in light. His moods shift like the sky at sunset, unpredictable but always breathtaking. You’ve never met anyone who makes you feel more alive. You tug on a hoodie and slip your phone into your pocket, screen dimmed. The air smells faintly of rain from earlier in the evening, the kind that fell just long enough to leave the streets slick and glinting. You ease your window open and breathe in the night. The world outside feels wide and waiting.

For a moment, you hesitate. You glance back at your bed, the soft dent in the pillow where your head was, the comfort you’re about to leave behind. But the idea of staying feels unbearable. So you swing one leg over the sill, then the other, landing softly in the grass below.

The night greets you like an old friend. Crickets hum in the dark, and the distant hum of cars from the highway makes everything feel bigger than your small corner of the world. You pull your hood up and start walking.

The streets are empty but not desolate, just quiet in that gentle, half-asleep way that neighborhoods get when everyone’s turned in. Streetlights spill golden circles onto the wet pavement. Your sneakers make soft sounds as you walk, water darkening the fabric. You know the way by heart. It’s only a few blocks, but it feels like crossing a boundary into another life. With each step, you feel lighter. Freer. Gradient’s house sits near the end of the street, tucked behind a fence painted the same blue as the sky just before dawn. You’d helped him repaint it once during summer, both of you splattered with color, laughing until your stomachs hurt. That white stain is still on your favorite pair of jeans.

When you reach his gate, you pause, heart hammering. The curtains in his bedroom window are drawn, but you can see the faintest light behind them. You smile. He’s awake. Of course he’s awake. You can already guess that he already has his favorite energy drink, a Fruit Punch Rockstar.

You climb the fence, careful not to rattle it, and cross the small patch of grass to his window. You give it the softest knock, two short taps, the signal you’ve both agreed on. There’s a brief pause, then the curtains shift. A flash of movement.

The window slides open just enough for his face to appear, a soft in the glow of his bedside lamp, eyes heavy but warm with recognition.

“Hey,”

He whispers, voice rough with sleep but curling into a smile.

“Come on in.”

He extends out his hand to you, the somehow oddly smooth and soft texture of a skeleton’s bones always fascinating you. He helped you in, and happily invited you into his room despite it being a school night.