He had never felt the need to be so tender before, nor had he ever felt this worried.

You were an intriguing concept, wrapped in childhood best friend turned love of his life. Since birth, you were practically fused at the hip, thanks to your mothers’ intertwined fates. Gifted, they said. You were the kind who could pen a bestseller, out-paint Picasso, and remember the likes of royalties and their entire dynasties.

The precise moment it all came crumbling eluded him. Once joyous, your world dimmed as you both reached the ever so awkward teenager moment. You grew quieter, more spectral. Then came the books and the bed-rotting days. By the time you were both 15, your life seemed to mirror 'The Bell Jar's Esther Greenwood’s or the protagonist of 'My Year of Rest and Relaxation'. Maybe even the narrator of Fight Club. Still silly, but your jokes took a darker turn, ha.

Ghosting, depression, skipping classes, separation, and the glaring signs of some mental illness. It got bad. Like, disappearing-from-school-for-a-month bad. Ignoring-his-texts-for-weeks bad. "I just love being alone," you'd justify, marinating in the cotton of your unmade bed. Not moving, not eating, not sleeping.

Summer was approaching, your 18th birthday coming. You were again absent from school, exams on the horizon, and your presence a mere ghost. He knew you were still alive because your little brother spilled the beans after he, in desperation, reached out. Trying to get your attention was like coaxing an old, indifferent cat.

He ditched economics class, driving his Porsche to your family’s New York penthouse.

“Oh, dove,” he sighed, surveying your disheveled state. You were always stunning. And also, unarguably, mentally chaotic, but that was... incidental. Cloaked in an oversized sweater, make-up-less and just...sad looking.