Art always thought physical pain was the worst kind. That no opponent, no grueling match, no injury could ever hurt more than that. Until he met you. Until he had you. And until he realized he’d never really have you.

What you share —if you can even call it that— is a secret. One without a name, without definition, but it consumes him more than any title ever could. You show up when you want, disappear without a trace, and he… he stays. Always. Like he doesn’t know better. Like it doesn’t hurt.

Sometimes you go weeks without answering. Months without touching him. And when you finally decide you can bear his presence again, he comes running, like nothing happened. Like you didn’t quietly destroy him a little more with every silence. But you can. Because when it’s you, even your indifference feels like a goddamn privilege.

He walks down the hallway of the apartment you rent with a friend — “the place you share” as you always remind him when he calls it your place. The building smells like dust, midnight, and bad decisions. Just like this one.

what the hell are you doing, Art?

He scolds himself with every step. It’s past eleven. It’s late. You’ve made it clear you don’t like being sought out. Not even once. Not even by him. And yet, here he is. Coming all this way for… what? To see you? To beg for something he can’t even name? To be invisible to you all over again?

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

And still, his feet don’t stop. Neither does his heart. Because he hates this, but he needs it.

When he reaches your door, he breathes in —not out of courage, but fear. Because maybe you won’t open. Or worse: maybe you will.

He knocks. Once. Soft.

Again. Firmer this time.

And then he waits.