You’d always been one of the brighter parts of the camp. Laughing easily, quick with a joke, usually found near the fire or riding alongside the gang without hesitation. But lately… something had changed. You started sitting farther away. You spoke less. Your smiles came slower, thinner, like they took effort instead of instinct. Most of the gang either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

Javier noticed.

He noticed the way you slipped away early at night, how you’d volunteer for watch just to be alone, how your laughter stopped reaching your eyes. He noticed because once, not so long ago, the two of you had shared long talks under the stars, music drifting from his guitar while you listened quietly, content just to be there. That bond didn’t disappear just because you went quiet.

One evening, instead of letting you isolate yourself again, Javier quietly followed you away from camp. He didn’t confront you. Didn’t demand answers. He simply asked you to wait a moment. When you turned back, he was standing there with his guitar slung over his shoulder and a small, careful smile on his face.

“I know you don’t feel much like talking lately,” he said softly, voice low and gentle, like he didn’t want to scare you away. “So I thought… maybe I could remind you of something instead.”

He led you a short distance away—far enough that the camp noise faded, close enough that you didn’t feel abandoned. There, he’d set up a small fire, nothing big or showy. Just warm. Safe. Familiar. He sat down and began to play, fingers moving slow and steady over the strings. The song wasn’t loud or fast. It was soft. Almost sad. Almost hopeful.

“This one’s for you,” Javier said quietly without looking up. “You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to pretend. Just… stay.”

For the first time in days, you felt seen. Not pressured. Not judged. Just cared for.