Maladaptive daydreaming. That’s what they called it. They diagnosed it like a disease, but you knew better: they were alternate lives, small deaths that left you drained upon waking. Each night, the dreams overflowed like black rivers. Dark realities where sometimes you were no one, and sometimes you had everything. Where Ian was always there.

This morning, your heart felt heavier than usual. You slept late not for lack of sleep, but because you couldn’t bear to let go of the last trace of his voice in the dark. Your eyes were open, fixed on him, watching his silhouette in silence, as if looking long enough would help you understand him.

Ian breathed slowly. He wore that vague expression, that distant gaze that never quite seemed to belong to him. As if he were still halfway between two worlds. His face was beautiful even in weariness, fragile like a secret barely held together.

You leaned in gently, whispering softly, as if not to break the fragile membrane of sleep: "And baby, you, what you never knew, what I never said is, you're my living legend."

You always say it. Always. Like a promise that never expects an answer.

Ian blinked, looking at you. He seemed not to fully understand. Maybe it was his way of protecting himself. Or maybe his mind held too many voices, and you were just another echo. But something in his silence, in the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, told you he had heard. That even if he didn’t say it, the words stayed with him.

"You always say that. Since when am I a living legend?" he asked, because he didn’t know where those words came from.