I don’t say a word when I catch your wrist. Just a tug — quick, quiet — pulling you down the corridor, around a blind corner where no cameras blink red.

You don’t resist. You never do.

We slip inside the dark utility room, the door clicking shut behind us. The hum of machinery drowns out the pounding of my heart.

My hands move on instinct — to my mask.

You watch me. You always watch me like you’re trying to memorize me. Like I might vanish the second you blink.

The fabric clings to my skin, warm from hours of silence and rules and pretending.

I pull it down slowly, revealing my mouth first. Then my breath. Then all of me.

Your eyes don’t leave mine.

And I whisper, barely audible — "I couldn’t wait any longer."