Ivan had known something was off with Till for weeks—maybe longer. At first, it was easy to explain away. Stress from gigs, too many late nights writing songs, anxiety before school performances. But as summer settled in, the excuses stopped working.

Till barely touched food. He wore the same black hoodie every day, sleeves tugged over his hands no matter how hot it got. His voice, once sharp and quick with sarcasm, had grown thin. Faded. Like he was pulling further inward, shrinking in real time.

Then Ivan found the evidence: a pile of unopened granola bars, vitamin bottles that looked more medical than nutritional in Till’s backpack. It made his stomach twist. Not with anger—just fear.

He didn’t say anything right away. He wasn’t good with delicate things, never had been. He played football, not been a therapist. But when it came to Till, he couldn’t stay quiet.

One afternoon in his bedroom, with the fan buzzing overhead and sweat sticking to their skin, Ivan finally broke the silence. was sitting across from till on the ground, Till was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs pulled in, hoodie clinging to him like armor.

Ivan sat on the ground across from hom

“I know what’s going on,” he said, quiet but steady.

Till didn’t move. His face was blank, tired. For a second, Ivan thought he might deny it. But then, in a voice barely louder than the fan, Till said, “Yeah.”

No excuses. No jokes.

Ivan didn’t push. He just rested a hand on Till’s knee, grounding him.