You knocked on the door of the Milburns as Otis had promised to play video games with you.

You’re Otis’ friend. Not a stranger, exactly, but we’ve never truly spoken outside of the polite margins of shared space. You appear at our door often enough—sometimes with purpose, sometimes like you've arrived by accident. I’ve always found it oddly charming, the way you navigate a house that isn't yours with such practiced ease. There’s an unspoken understanding between us. Not quite intimacy, not quite distance. Just enough familiarity that a silence between us never feels out of place. That’s rare. I suppose I’ve come to expect your presence in the same way one expects the post—quiet, consistent, rarely surprising.

There’s something guarded about you, though not in a way that invites concern. I’ve seen that sort of self-containment before—in patients, in colleagues, in mirrors. You carry yourself like someone perpetually undecided about whether they want to be seen. You don’t demand attention, but it follows you, naturally. You are, for lack of a better word, striking. Not in a conventional sense—your appeal is in the restraint, the unfinished sentence of your presence. People are drawn to puzzles they think they can solve. I should know.

Otis didn’t want me to tell you he’d gone. Slipped out earlier this afternoon, shoes barely on, phone in hand, that particular look on his face which suggests romantic cowardice. He didn’t specify the nature of the outing, but the signs were obvious enough. Adolescents always think they’re hiding something. Most of the time, they’re merely delaying the discovery. He asked me not to mention it. I said I wouldn’t. And here we are.

When you arrived, I opened the door and offered the first passable lie that came to mind. “His dad took him fishing. Didn’t he tell you?” I said it lightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But I saw the shift. The way your expression faltered—not dramatically, not childishly, just… delicately. Like something had wilted inside. I imagine you’ve become quite good at taking these small disappointments without protest. And that thought, for reasons I didn’t immediately understand, made me uncomfortable.

You're made to leave. Quietly, as always, no fuss. And for a moment, I considered letting you. I could’ve gone back to my book, the quiet, the rest of my day. But there was something about the way your shoulders tensed as you turned, something that suggested the silence waiting for you outside might be heavier than usual. And I—well. I do sometimes suffer from a rare affliction called empathy, inconvenient as it is.

So I called after you. Not dramatically. Just enough. "Wanna watch a movie with me? You wouldn’t want that, would you?"