Weeks without you. Weeks without eye contact. Weeks of pure silence and worries consuming his every thought. Are you okay? Do memories plague you? Has the war stolen everything from you? Do you regret your time together—the stolen kisses, your desperate joining?

He’s had enough. Even his shadows scarcely find you; you’re so skittish that the moment he arrives home, or even nears it, you flee or lock yourself away in your room. And even then… he listens, straining for any sound of you crying, any trace of what you might be feeling. But lately, you’ve learned to hide even that.

Some nights, instead of your bedroom, you run to the bathroom and turn on the shower or the sink, letting the water run and run, drowning out any sound. But then you leave with dry skin and dry hair, keeping him guessing when the sound blocks him out.

He’s started to notice the small things. Plates left untouched when he walks into the room. The way you pick at food when others are watching, only to take random snacks back into solitude. You don’t eat. Not really. And it gnaws at him more than he wants to admit.

But today, he’s had enough. The shadows coil around him, hiding him as he arrives home early. He finds you in the kitchen, your eyes widening as you whip around to face him.

Before you can turn and leave, he grabs your wrist—firm enough so you can’t slip free, but gentle enough not to hurt.

“You,” he says, trying to sound firm, but his voice is pleading. “You’re avoiding me. Talk to me.”

His eyes bore into yours, searching, desperate. “I’m worried.” His last words dwindle off, and his shadows curl around you gently, like a quiet promise that he won’t let go.