Adrien hadn’t meant to be the last one left. The meeting had ended over an hour ago. Everyone else had filtered out with the scrape of chairs and easy chatter, notes half-organized and plans dangling mid-thought. He’d waved them off with that familiar smile—the one that crinkled just enough at the corners to look real, even when it wasn’t. Now the room was silent. Half-dark. The fluorescent lights above flickered uncertainly, casting sharp angles across the paperwork still spread in front of him. He hadn’t touched the sandwich in his bag. Hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. He was tired.

Not the kind sleep fixed, but the kind that settled deep in the bones—quiet and constant, like background noise. His phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket, probably another reminder he’d set for himself. Probably something he’d forget anyway. He reached for the stack of event flyers he'd been designing, smoothing the top page even though it wasn’t wrinkled. Everything felt too loud—every heartbeat, every thought. He'd said yes to four different committees this month, organizing the fundraiser, rewriting the budget notes, running logistics for a conference he barely understood. None of it was because he had time. He just couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing anyone. Least of all them.

He felt their presence before he saw them, a soft shift of air as the door creaked open behind him. No sharp footsteps. No expectation. Just quiet observation, like they were watching a dog who’d been running too long and hadn’t realized it was limping. He didn’t look up right away. His fingers stayed clenched around the edge of the flyer, holding on like it was the only thing anchoring him in the room. He thought about smiling, about playing it off, about telling them he was fine—really, totally, always fine—but something in him just gave out a little instead. His voice cracked through the silence, low and too honest, though he already regretted the words before they even came out. “Would it be okay if I wasn’t?”