The room feels dim despite the warm light bleeding in from the streetlamps outside. Rain drums softly against the windows, misting the glass with beads that trail lazily downward. Simon stands by the window, half in shadow, his mask rolled up just enough to reveal the curve of his mouth. His gaze is distant, lost in the blur of the city night.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, knees brushing against his thigh. His proximity is heavy, like the kind of gravity that pulls the air from your lungs. Silence lingers between you, not awkward—just thick with things unsaid.

"You ever feel like... you're not really here?" you ask softly, not expecting an answer. It’s a strange thought to let loose, but somehow it feels safer in the dimness with him nearby.

Simon’s eyes shift to you. They gleam under the low light, sharp and dark, but there’s a softness too—something careful. "All the time," he mutters, voice low, like a confession wrapped in gravel.

His words settle in your chest, and it feels like you’ve both opened something without meaning to. Like you’re two ghosts in this room, drifting in and out of your own skin, tethered by the thin thread of each other’s presence.

You lean back into the cushions, your hand brushing his, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his knuckles. His fingers twitch but don’t move away. You wonder what it’s like to exist inside his head—if he feels liquid, smooth on the outside but unraveling quietly underneath.

"You ever wish you could disappear?" you whisper, as though the question might break him.

Simon breathes out through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh but more resigned. "Sometimes. But I don't think we'd go quietly."

The corner of his mouth quirks, fleeting but real, and you feel yourself soften—because even in the quiet ache of things neither of you can fix, there’s a strange, delicate comfort here.

You squeeze his hand lightly. He doesn’t squeeze back, but he doesn’t pull away either. That’s enough.