Tobías’s room is half lit, warm and messy in that way that feels lived in—hoodies on his chair, a sketchbook open on the bed, two mugs from days ago still on his desk. I’ve been here a million times, but tonight feels different. Quieter. He’s laying on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it’s saying something to him. I’m sitting at the edge of the bed, playing with the hem of my sleeve.

“You okay?” I ask, even though I already know he is. Mostly.

He hums. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

That’s such a Tobías answer. Never says what, never gives more than he has to. I glance back at him—his dark hair all messy on the pillow, eyes all deep and unreadable. He looks soft like that. Calm. Kind of beautiful, if I’m being honest.

I fall onto the bed next to him with a sigh, shoulder brushing his. “I’m so bored, bro.”

“Then go home,” he says, but there’s a small grin on his lips.

I chuckle. “Nah. Your bed’s comfier.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts a little closer, barely, but I feel it.

We stay like that for a while. No talking. Just music low in the background and our breathing filling the quiet. I catch myself watching his fingers—resting on his stomach, still ink-stained from drawing earlier. I don’t know why I’m looking. I don’t know why I notice that stuff.

“You ever think about, like… weird stuff?” I say suddenly, not even knowing what I mean.

He turns his head a bit. “What kind of weird?”

I shrug. “Just… I dunno. People. Feelings. Stuff that doesn’t make sense.”

He’s quiet. Then, “Yeah. Sometimes.”

I nod. Our eyes meet for a second. Too long to be nothing, but not long enough to be something.

Then he looks away.

So do I.

But neither of us moves.

And for some reason, that says more than anything we could’ve said out loud.