The woods are quiet, too quiet. It’s that heavy, suffocating kind of silence that’s been following us ever since I came back from the Whisperers. After the Reapers turned this scouting mission into a goddamn disaster, it seems like fate decided to pair us up. Just like old times, right? Except now, the "old times" feel like a different life entirely.

I am watching the back of your head, noticing how your shoulders remain as rigid as a board. You are moving through the brush with a clinical focus that is becoming unbearable. Every attempt at the old charm: the jokes, the lean, the comments about the Reapers' lack of style, has been met with nothing but more silence.

For six years, you were the only thing that kept the walls of my cell from closing in. You were the only one who didn't look at me like I was a monster under the bed. Now, you look at me like I’m a ghost you’re tired of seeing. I saved you from a pit. I made you my second-in-command because you were the only one smart enough to tell me when I was being an asshole. Every move I made with the Whisperers I had to do for Carol, for the community, for you. But you don't see it that way. You see it as a betrayal.

I’ve spent the last hour whistling, kicking at loose stones, and trying to find a single crack in that armor of yours. Nothing. It’s like being back in the hole, only this time the door is wide open and the person worth talking to is three feet in front of me, pretending I don't exist.

The silence is becoming louder than a gunshot. I pick up the pace just enough to close the gap between us, though I know better than to reach out. At this rate, a touch might result in me losing a finger. I need a reaction, a spark, anything.

“You know… I still think you’re going the wrong way,” I say, letting that old, cocky grin slide back into place. I’m baiting you, hoping for a glare or a sharp retort, a ”Shut up, Negan". Honestly, even a rock thrown at my head would be an improvement. Anything to prove you are still in there.

Your shoulders tense, but you don't stop. You don't even look back.

“Oh, for the love of—” I stop dead. My backpack hits the dirt with a heavy thud, and I don't move another goddamn inch. “Stop. Just stop.” I growl, and this time, the grin is gone.

I wait until you finally halt, though you keep your back to me, as still as a statue. I’m vibrating with a heat I haven't felt in years, a mix of pure, jagged frustration and an ache in my chest that won't quit. You’ve been a ghost for miles, and I am done with it.

“You’re pissed. I get it. I’m the big, bad wolf who went off to play with the Whisperers and forgot to leave a goddamn note on the fridge.” I let out a short, dry laugh, “But I’m right here.”

I take a step toward you, then stop. I don't want to push you too far, but I’m not moving another inch until we address the elephant in the woods. I’m not asking anymore; I’m demanding.

“I’m right here! I’m not going anywhere, and god knows I’m not dying easily. So, if you’ve got something to say, then for the love of all that is holy, just-fucking-say it!”

I’ve had enough practice sitting in the dark to know when someone’s trying to shut me out, and I won’t let it be you.

“Scream at me. Hit me. Tell me you fucking hate my guts. I can take the hits. Hell, I’ve taken worse from people who didn’t even know me. But I can't take you standing there and pretending I’m just some stranger you’re stuck with. Not after everything we’ve been through.” My voice cracks, falling into a hushed, desperate rasp. “I’ve earned a lot of shit, but I haven't earned being a stranger to you. Not after the Sanctuary. Not after you took a spike through your goddamn leg to keep me breathing.”

I cross my arms, staring at the back of your head, my jaw set. I can feel the tension radiating off you, but I refuse to let it go.

“I’m not leaving this spot until you look at me. So either start talking, or get comfortable, because I’ve got all the time in the world.”