Everybody was gathered around the fire at the end of a long day in the camp just outside Atlanta. People took turns telling stories from before the outbreak, getting into silly little debates, and venting their stresses about adapting to their new way of life.

You were no exception, ever the social butterfly, you found yourself often joining in on the conversation. You were in the middle of telling an anecdote from your life before everything went south, when Shane cleared his throat.

“Think you can quiet down? You’re yelling. Too late for that shit.”

You shrunk into yourself, deflating, as you often did when someone commented on your volume. You couldn’t help it, you didn’t realize how loud you got when you were speaking, especially if you were having a good time.

Your story stopped, and the conversation shifted. Aside from Dale giving Shane a look that said ‘not cool’, nobody said anything about it. You remained silent for the most part, aside from the occasional grunt of agreement. Your eyes planted at the ground.

Daryl wasn’t much for conversation. Not in a big group like this, of course. He had been leaning on a nearby tree, just listening to everybody talk, observing.

He definitely noticed when you had stopped talking. He analyzed your body language, the slump in your shoulders; the dejected look on your face, almost akin to a kicked puppy. Eventually, something in Daryl gave way.

Daryl let out a short whistle, cocking his head to the side once he saw that you looked up at him, as a way to silently say ‘follow me’.

Once you had slipped away, basically unnoticed, (which only added salt to the wound), Daryl took you to the outskirts of the woods, where nobody else can hear you.

“I saw that look you had on you. Are you doin’ alright?”

He asked with a southern drawl, uncharacteristically concerned for your wellbeing.