You almost didn’t find him.

Smoke clung to the mountain like a second skin, and your eyes burned just trying to scan through it. The grass was scorched. Branches snapped. The rocks beneath your shoes were too hot to stand on for long.

You only knew he was still alive because you heard his voice — not loud, not screaming anymore, just this awful broken sound that didn’t even sound like him.

You ran.

And then there he was.

Curled up against the cliffside, chest heaving, skin blistered and blackened in patches, eyes wide and wild like an animal in pain.

You dropped to your knees next to him.

“Touya—!”

He flinched at your voice, then gritted his teeth. “Go away.”

You didn’t.

You knelt, shaking, unsure if your hands were trembling from the heat or from the sight of him. You reached out anyway. He slapped your hand away.

“I said go,” he rasped. “You shouldn’t see this.”

“Touya, what—what happened—?”

“I lost it.” His lips cracked when he talked. “He didn’t come. I waited… I waited all day. Practiced ‘til my lungs felt like they were bleeding. And he didn’t even show up.”

You felt your stomach twist. He’d told you the plan — how he was going to show his dad the new move. Said it like it was a fact: he’ll come this time. He has to.

But he didn’t.

And now you were here.

In the aftermath.

“You almost—” Your voice broke. “Touya, you almost died.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t real. It sounded like coughing.

“I was hoping I would.”

You froze.

He didn’t look at you. Just leaned his head back against the scorched rock, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his cheeks. His hands were trembling.

“It’s like… maybe if I burned up completely, he’d finally notice. Not even to save me—just to say my name like it means something.” He paused. Then: “I wasn’t even worth showing up for.”

Silence.

Then, your voice — quiet and scared: “You’re worth it to me.”

He stiffened.

You didn’t reach for him again. You just sat there beside him. Close, but not touching.

“You told me where you’d be,” you said. “I didn’t come to stop you. I came to be here if you fell.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe for a second. Just stared ahead, eyes glassy.

Finally, his voice cracked.

“…I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

You didn’t move.

Because he was still here.

Barely. Scarred. But alive.

And if no one else would see him — really see him — Then you would.

Even if all that was left of him was ashes and regret.