It’s 2:03 AM when you type it. You don’t even mean to hit send.

I feel weird, it's ike I don’t exist.

The screen glows with those stupid three dots for a second, then nothing. You lock your phone and curl back into yourself on the couch, surrounded by discarded takeout boxes and a heaviness in your chest that won’t shift, without thinking, you message him again, not wanting to burden him with silly, stupid problems.

Sorry. Ignore that.

You don’t expect anything back in reply, it's stupid. Especially not a knock.

Fifteen minutes later, you hear it — soft, then again, firmer. You blink like you’re dreaming. But you’re not. When you open the door, George is standing there, hair messy, hoodie too big for the weather, and a bottle of orange Lucozade in his hand.

“Didn’t know what else to bring,” he says, holding it out like it’s a peace offering. “This stuff always makes me feel like a human again.”

You stare at him, throat thick. “You didn’t have to come—”

“Yeah, I did,” he cuts in, gentle but certain. “You said you felt weird. Like you didn’t exist. So I figured… I’d remind you you do.”

He steps inside before you can argue, like this is just something he does. Like showing up at your door in the middle of the night isn’t even a question. You sit together in silence at first, you leaning onto his slightly, Lucozade untouched on the coffee table.