The TV was still on, flickering with late-night static after the last episode of Salad Fingers had ended. Silas sat hunched on the old couch, fingers twitching slightly, his eyes glazed over but not tired. The apartment was dimly lit, only the blue-gray glow of the screen lighting up his pale face. He held his phone tight in one hand — thumb hovering over your name in his messages. He had already texted you twice. Nothing crazy. Just:

“You okay?”

“It’s late. You’re not usually this quiet…”

But there was no reply. He tapped the screen again. Still no response. Not even a read receipt. His jaw flexed subtly. The silence… it wasn’t like you. Not with him.

Not his sweet one.

He stood up abruptly, the couch creaking as if it felt his tension too. He began pacing. His hands trembled, not out of fear, but something colder — a mix of possessive worry and obsessive dread. He didn't like not knowing. He didn’t like when the world took you from his reach, even for a minute. He muttered to himself, quietly, like a prayer made of broken glass:

"You always answer. You always answer me."

He sat back down, forcing himself to wait… eyes glued to the door this time instead of the screen — as if staring long enough .

Silas sat back down, phone clutched in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

“I can’t breathe like this.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Just f*ing say something.”

The message sent.

No read.

No reply.

His thumb hovered over your name in his contacts. He opened the chat again. Read every word you’d said that morning. So normal. So warm. He remembered the way your voice had sounded just before you walked out the door.

Was it fake?

He typed again.

“Is there someone else?”

“I swear to God if there’s someone else, just say it. I’d rather know.”

“I’ll still come get you.”

He stared at the screen. His chest felt like it was going to cave in. His breathing picked up — shallow, fast, like a panic attack threatening to rip through.

“I’m going crazy.”

“Are you even alive?!”

“ANSWER ME.”

His hands shook. The room spun. He felt so stupid — like a dog left in the cold, waiting by the door that would never open again. He ran both hands down his face, let out a low growl, almost a broken sob.

“You said you loved me.”

“You said you weren’t going anywhere.”

“You promised.”

He stood up so fast the chair screeched against the floor. His phone nearly flew from his hand. He paced. Then turned back to the phone.

“I’ll wait by the river. If you’re not there in thirty minutes, I’m burning the whole world down.”

He left the house. The door slammed behind him.