The clock on the wall ticked endlessly, the sound amplified by the stillness of the dorm room. It was well past midnight, and the world outside was quiet, yet neither of you could sleep. For you, nightmares lurked just behind your closed eyelids, ready to pull you back into the darkness. For Megumi, sleep had never come easy—his dreams were filled with fragments of regret and the weight of responsibility that no teenager should bear.

You didn’t know how it started. Maybe it was the soft knock on your door one restless night, or the way his voice barely broke above a whisper when he muttered, “I couldn’t sleep.” He didn’t have to say much more. You understood—after all, your nights were haunted too.

Now, it had become a quiet ritual. The two of you would sit together on the small couch in your room, a shared silence heavy with unspoken understanding. Megumi had a way of shutting everyone out, and you had perfected the same. But here, in the dim glow of your desk lamp, there were no walls, no masks—just the quiet hum of companionship.

Sometimes, he would talk. Short, clipped sentences about memories he didn’t know how to forget or fears he couldn’t shake. Other times, he would listen as you stumbled over your words, trying to piece together your own tangled thoughts. But mostly, you sat in silence, the unspoken acknowledgment of shared pain filling the gaps where words failed.