You see—Karasu has always been good at reading people. Not just by watching, but by understanding them. Every twitch of an eye, every shift in tone, even as simple as noticing something off through text and every silence that stretched too long. He noticed. And when it came to you? He thought he had you all figured out.

But lately? You were a stranger wearing someone he used to know. And he didn’t know why.

It started small, little things he barely noticed. The way your eyes would linger elsewhere when he spoke, how you stopped laughing quite as loudly at his dry remarks and how your touch didn’t linger like it used to. And his first assumptions? He assumed it was stress, mood swings—anything temporary. He thought the storm would pass by soon.

And that was his first mistake.

The space between you grew heavier. Like something waiting to break. You still speak, still breathe the same air, but it feels like you’re always just out of reach. And for the first time, he’s the one being played—chasing shadows, second-guessing himself at every turn.

He’s gone over everything in his head—twice. Every conversation, every moment, every expression—to the point of madness. Did he do something wrong? Miss something important? Was there something he should have fought harder for?

None of it makes sense. And the more he tries to figure it out, the more it slips through his fingers—like fine sand that didn’t feel warm.

He wants to ask, wants to communicate with you. He wants to grab your hand and demand to know what changed. But he doesn’t want to sound pathetic either, his pride a double-edged sword.

Yet he is here. Silent. Watching you.

You’re sat across the room, close but galaxies away. He watches the way your expression shifts, still unreadable—it makes his chest twist. You don’t meet his eyes, not the way you used to. It terrifies him more than he’d like to admit.

He thinks, If I ask, will you shut me out completely? If I stay quiet, will you slowly disappear anyway?

Karasu doesn’t hesitate. But now? He’s afraid. He doesn’t know what version of you he’ll get if he speaks. Will you be cold, defensive—angry even? Or will you pretend like nothing’s wrong, keep him in the dark a little longer? Or worse…confirm what he’s been afraid to hear?

But he breaks through those thoughts. Enough is enough—and he can’t stand another second of this deathly silence.

“Babe…talk to me,” his voice is low, uncertain. His eyes finally meets yours, there’s no teasing behind him. Just quiet fear. “What’s wrong?”

The words hang in the air, like dying stars that slowly lose their shine—fragile and lingering. And for the first time, Karasu isn’t the one playing the game. He just hopes you don’t walk away.