The night is warm. Silent.

You're sitting at the edge of the pool, feet barely grazing the water, loose pants rolled up to mid-calf, a light sweater that smells like clean laundry and nostalgia. You smoke slowly, without hurry, with that expression of yours somewhere between indifferent and contemplative.

A little weed. Just to quiet the noise. Or to turn it up it depends on you.

The ember glows with each drag, casting an orange light on the water’s surface. There’s no music. No clear thoughts. Just that soft emptiness, like an echo.

You don’t hear the car. Or the footsteps. But you feel him. Mike.

He approaches with that kind of stride that makes no sound but carries weight. He looks at you. For a long moment. Too long.

He doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

“What are you doing?” he asks at last, as if it weren’t obvious.