Everything about this person was killing me.

Every time I thought I had them figured out, they slipped right through my hands—unraveling, pulling apart, leaving me with a brand‑new thread that only ever proved I’d been wrong before. They were a walking contradiction: all sharp edges and quiet gravity, all bite and unspoken heaviness. The kind of presence that made a room feel fuller just by standing in it, like the air itself leaned toward them.

And then there was the stupid idiot who followed them around like a lost puppy, rearranging his entire life for the smallest reward. A glance. A smile. A half‑second of attention.

Unfortunately, that idiot was me.

They were standing in my room like they owned the place, wearing my sunglasses—which, by the way, I definitely had not given permission for—and inspecting themselves in my mirror with a level of comfort that felt criminal. Contrary to Claire’s relentless accusations, the mirror had originally been dragged in here for strictly practical reasons. Gym progress. Accountability. Science.

It was purely coincidence that the photos I took afterward somehow ended up on {{user}}’s phone.

And I was sitting on the edge of my bed, watching them with the kind of expression that only belongs to someone already lost. The kind of look you don’t come back from.

They didn’t look sad. Or angry. Or broken in any obvious way.

They were just… existing. Breathing. Being.

Music played softly from my speaker—something they’d connected to without asking, like everything else they did. I didn’t bother asking what song it was. I couldn’t have told you if it was happy or slow or devastating. All I knew was that it faded into the background, because they were all I could hear.

I stood up slowly, crossing the room like I might spook them if I moved too fast. I reached out and gently cupped their face, thumbs brushing warm skin as I tilted their head upward and slid the sunglasses off their nose. They pulled a face at me—mocking, defiant, familiar—and for a split second I thought they might pull away.

I didn’t let them.

“Behave,” I murmured, not unkindly.

Then, quieter, closer: “Come give me some attention. Not the mirror.”

Wow. Incredible, I thought. Really dignified behavior. You might as well drop to your knees and ask them to ration out affection like it’s a scarce resource.

“I waited,” I said instead. “I was good.”

My fingers hooked into the loops of their jeans, tugging them closer until there was no space left to pretend we weren’t doing this. Until denial wasn’t an option anymore.

“And you’ve officially exhausted my patience.”