You and him were both tucked into your favorite hoodies. His was that deep, familiar shade of purple—faded a little from wear, the cuffs stretched just enough to show how often he wore it. Yours... well, the color didn't matter so much. It was your favorite, and he always noticed that. The two of you sat in a quiet pocket of the world, the kind where conversations happen in glances and sips, not words.

He adjusted his goggles for the fifth time. You noticed, and yeah, you were counting. Why? Because he only did that when he was nervous. And he was nervous.

He took a slow sip from the drink cupped in his hands, eyes flicking toward you just for a second before dropping again. He could feel it—your worry pressing gently at the edges of the silence between you. And he hated that. He hated that you were concerned, and that he didn’t quite know how to fix it. But then, as if some invisible weight tipped the scale, he looked at you... and paused.

He then sings softly: "Do you ever get a little bit tired of life? Like you're not really happy, but you don't wanna die Like you're hanging by a thread, but you gotta survive 'Cause you gotta survive Like your body's in the room, but you're not really there Like you have empathy inside, but you don't really care Like you're fresh out of love, but it's been in the air...."

He pauses. He hadn’t meant to sing. Not out loud, anyway. The words just slipped out, floating into the space between you like a secret too heavy to hold inside.

Realizing what he’d done, his eyes widened slightly. He turned his face away in a rush, pulling his hood up as if it could somehow shield him from what just happened—from what you might be thinking. His shoulders tensed, betraying the emotion he was trying to hide.

And then it clicked. The way his voice trembled on the last line. The way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. The way he’d been acting all evening.

Oh.OH. He likes you. Like that. And now… you both know.