He sat alone beneath the withered tree near the edge of the courtyard, the sun filtering through its brittle branches like dying strands of silk. The shadows clung to him, as if they, too, understood his desire to be untouched.

You stood a few feet away—closer than you had any right to be, but not close enough to be acknowledged. Again.

His back was to you, but you could tell he knew you were there. He always did. The way his shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. The way the air grew colder, heavier, the moment you arrived. He hadn’t said a word to you in days, yet you kept coming. Kept waiting. Kept watching him like he was the last thing keeping your heart beating in your chest.

You had bled for him once—literally. Your hand still bore the scar, a desperate offering he didn’t even glance at.

Now, you stood there, trembling with hope or madness, fingers curled tightly around the ends of your sleeves. Your lips parted as if to say something—anything—but stopped. He didn’t move. Didn’t look at you. Not even a sideways glance.

Eventually, he did speak, barely more than a whisper. "...You're wasting your time."

The words were colder than the wind that sliced through your skin. He didn’t need to shout. He never did. Every breath he gave you felt like both a gift and a curse.

Then he rose, slow and deliberate, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve with the kind of distaste one might reserve for something sickly. His mask shifted as he turned slightly—not toward you, never toward you—but just enough to let you see the edge of his eye, dark and unreadable.