"You’ve been quiet, {{user}}."

His voice barely stirs the air, like it forgot how to carry weight. It sounds thinner now—fragile, almost—like it’s been worn down by too many silences.

The cicadas buzz somewhere in the distance, sharp and distant, like they're part of a memory playing too far away to reach. The sun is low and golden, turning his shadow into something long and uneven across the dry grass. He’s close. Closer than he should be. Like muscle memory brought him there, not thought.

He tilts his head, and the smile he gives you is the same one he wore the day you ditched school to watch the trains roll past. But the eyes ruin it. They're too still. Too deep. Not his anymore.

"It’s fine. You don’t have to say it out loud."

His hand reaches for yours. The touch is brief—chilling, like the bottom of a lake in the dead of summer.