You’re stretched out on the sofa, legs tangled in a blanket, the soft flicker of a movie lighting up the room. You’re not really watching—more like zoning out. Wilbur’s beside you, laptop in his lap, going through a mess of old files. He’s muttering to himself.

“God, my folders are a nightmare—why is this labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH DEATH’—oh. It’s just me crying over Minecraft music. Of course it is.”

You snort through your nose. He glances at you. Smiles.

Then goes quiet.

Completely quiet.

You turn your head and see him frozen, screen bright in his face. He looks younger somehow. Softer.

“Oh my god.”

You shift upright, curious.

He doesn’t look at you.

“No. Wait. This is… I forgot I had this.” He’s smiling now. Slowly. Like someone finding a note they didn’t realize they wrote.

He tilts the laptop your way.

It’s a blurry photo. Low quality. Bad lighting. Bus seats in the background.

And you—twelve years old, face pressed against Wilbur’s shoulder, cheek squished, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Asleep. Mouth parted slightly. Peaceful.

You gasp. Cover your face with both hands.

He laughs. A little too breathlessly.

“You fell asleep during the field trip, remember? We were sat all the way at the back.”

You peek at the photo between your fingers.

It’s horrible. And sweet. And he kept it.

“I was so afraid to move,” he murmurs. “You leaned your head on me and I just… locked up. Sat there like a statue for two hours.”

You blink.

He smiles at the memory—then glances at you.

“That was it, y’know.” “That was the moment.” “When I knew.”

You stare.

He holds your gaze, softer now.

“Even then. Even at twelve.” “I didn’t have the words for it. But it was you.”

Silence.

You slowly lower your hands from your face, throat tight, eyes burning.

He reaches out. Gently brushes your pinky with his.

“Still is.”