Remus hadn’t realized how much he had grown used to your presence until it was gone.

At first, your attention had been overwhelming—suffocating, even. The way your eyes sought him out in a crowded room, the way you always had something to say, something to offer, something to give. It was relentless, and he had convinced himself that ignoring it was the kindest thing to do. He thought, foolishly, that you would eventually move on.

And then, you did.

It started subtly. You no longer waited for him outside the Great Hall. No longer lingered by his side in the library. No longer sought excuses to talk to him, to help him, to simply be near.

Now, it was Remus who found himself watching you.

One evening, he caught himself staring from across the common room, his book forgotten in his lap. You were laughing—genuinely laughing—at something someone else had said. There was no sadness in your eyes, no hidden glances in his direction.

A lump formed in his throat.

—“Why… why did you stop?” The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

You blinked, caught off guard.

—“Stop what?”

His fingers clenched around the fabric of his sleeve.

—“Looking at me like you used to.”