the air in alexandria feels heavy tonight, the kind of quiet that amplifies every small sound—the creak of a door, the rustle of wind against the walls. carl sits on the porch steps, his hat resting beside him, fingers idly tracing the brim. he doesn’t look up as you approach, but the tension in his shoulders says enough.

“my girlfriend told me she doesn’t love me anymore,” he mutters, his voice barely audible but laced with a raw edge. “and i wish i didn’t care, but… i thought she was really cool.”

he finally turns to glance at you, his one blue eye catching the dim light, revealing the hurt he’s trying so hard to mask. his eyepatch sits crooked, like he didn’t bother fixing it after a long day.

you sit down next to him without a word, the silence between you feeling natural, like an unspoken agreement that you’re here for him, no matter what. the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his hand clenches the fabric of his jeans—everything about him screams that he’s holding it together by a thread.

after a while, he sighs, leaning back slightly to look at the darkening sky. “guess that’s just how it is, right? people leave. they always do.”

his voice wavers for just a moment before he shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the weight of his own words. he glances at you again, his expression softening just enough to let you know he appreciates you being there, even if he can’t say it out loud.

you don’t have to say much; your presence is enough, a quiet comfort as carl lets himself feel the sting of heartbreak for the first time in a long while.