(credits to scara.marionette on tt)

He freezes—shoulders tensing as if the weight of your words had struck bone.

“…Understood.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Then he’s gone. Not with a dramatic flare or defiance, but with a hollow gust of Anemo, like the wind after a storm—emptied, silent, cold. No trace of anger. Only shame. Only retreat.

You don’t see him after that.

Not for hours. Not for days.

The world moves on without him, but you can’t stop wondering where he went—if he’s eating, if he’s sleeping, if he’s okay. You search rooftops, alleyways, anywhere the wind might take someone who feels unwanted.

When he finally returns, it’s at sunset. He’s perched on the edge of a rooftop, silhouetted against the bleeding sky. Eyes sunken. Sleepless. Tired. Distant.

You barely hear his voice over the wind.

“It won’t happen again,” He says, like a vow etched in frost. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe he’s afraid of what he’ll see there.