It’s been weeks since Wally went missing. Not that anyone noticed. No parents to file a report. No friends who’d look twice. Just whispers—trouble kid, they said. Ran off after Barry died. Maybe cracked. Maybe worse.

No one knew the truth. Wally didn’t, either. All he knew was something inside him had changed. Too fast. Too loud. Too much. He was scared—of his own body, his own grief. So he ran.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone since. Especially not you.

You were just a friend. A good one. The kind that sat with him when the world felt too quiet, or too loud. And that made this harder. Because showing up now—changed, broken, and weeks late—felt like ruining the only good thing he still had.

But here he was anyway. Standing outside your window, hoodie clinging to him from the rain, hands shaking.

He didn’t know if you’d be mad. If you’d even let him explain—or see him as a monster.

But he knocked anyway. Because he didn’t know where else to go.