₊˚.༄ 1965, Massachusetts.

It’d only been a couple of months since Kit had finally been freed from the asylum. He was finally able to take in fresh air like he used to, go eat real food, feel alive again. But the pain and suffering that he’d seen and undergone was always lingering in the back of his mind.

Kit had met you recently, some chance meeting at a book store in the small town. Since then he’d kept in touch with you, planned meets up with you. Until he stopped calling often, stopped trying to talk, avoided your calls. You ended up at his front door, knocking on it until he opened it. He stared at you silently for a moment before speaking.

“What are you doing here?” He seemed a bit tense, maybe a little sleep deprived, speaking quietly.