Finny sat on the living room couch, his body still and composed as he read from my computer screen. The glow from the monitor cast a pale light across his face, sharpening the quiet concentration in his eyes. He concentrated so hard, it was clear on his face. The amount of focus he gave into reading the book it took 2 years to write. You tried to lose yourself in your book, but the room felt too silent—too full of unspoken things. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic click of the keyboard as he scrolled to the next page. Each time it broke the silence, your eyes flickered up to him, searching his expression for something—anything—but his face gave nothing away. It was blank, distant, unreadable.

Around eleven, you switched on the TV, letting the low hum of an old movie fill the room. The flickering light danced across the walls, a weak attempt to warm the cold space between you. Finny didn’t react. He didn’t comment, didn’t shift, didn’t even glance at the screen. He remained absorbed, as though the rest of the world had dissolved around him.

Just before the movie ended, he stood. The movement was quiet, almost reluctant. You heard the faint clink of glass in the kitchen as he poured himself water, followed by the soft sound of him drinking. When he returned, he sank back onto the couch without sparing you a look, his attention slipping immediately back to the screen.

The film ended. Another began. Still, he read.

But now, there was a change—a faint crease between his brows, a subtle frown forming as something on the screen unsettled him.

You stayed awake for another hour, though exhaustion pressed heavily against your. Your eyelids drooped, head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Finally, you turned off the TV, plunging the room into a deeper quiet. Finny didn’t move. You stood, stretching slowly, hoping for some sign that he noticed you—but there was nothing. No glance, no word.

So you walked past him, out of the room, and up the stairs.

In Finny’s room, you slipped beneath his covers, the fabric cool and familiar against my skin. you rested your head on his pillow, breathing in deeply, the faint scent of him lingering there. You had expected to feel restless, jittery—like you needed to move, to do something—but instead, a heavy exhaustion settled over you. Giving it to him, whatever it was, had drained you completely.

Sleep took you quickly, deeply, pulling you under without resistance. You dreamed, though the details slipped away from you the moment you woke. It happened so suddenly—or so slowly—that you couldn’t tell when sleep ended and awareness began. One moment there was nothing, and the next, you were awake.

Finny stood beside the bed.

His figure was a dark silhouette against the dim light filtering through the room. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his posture tense despite the stillness. You couldn’t see his face, but you felt his gaze—steady, heavy, fixed on you. He said your name, and something in the quiet certainty of it told you he had already said it once before.

“What?” You murmured, pushing myself upright. Your hair fell forward, and you brushed it back, rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes.

“Why did you have to leave me like that?” He asked.

His voice was low, but it carried something fragile—something close to breaking.

“I was tired,” You said, my voice rough. “You were reading.”

“No.” His reply came sharper this time, threaded with a faint tremble. “After we turned thirteen. Why did you have to leave like that?”

The question lingered in the air between you, heavy and familiar, like something that had never truly been laid to rest.

“I didn’t leave,” You said at last, though the words felt weak even as you spoke them. You could hear the uncertainty in your own voice. “We just… grew apart.”

Finny shook his head slowly, the movement deliberate, final.

“We did not just grow apart, {{user}},” He said.