The town was always quiet in a way that felt personal. Fog clung to the streets like it was trying to hide something. Windows always seemed a little too dim, like they had secrets they didn’t want to share. Even the sea, just beyond the rocky cliffs, never roared—it murmured. Always just out of reach.

Asher liked it that way.

There was something comforting about a place that mirrored the way his mind worked—slowed, muted, not fully here. Some mornings he’d wake and it felt like the sky hadn’t finished rendering. Days passed in grayscale. Sounds came in late. Emotions hit like echoes. Sometimes he wondered if he was even real here.

But then... there was you.

You had a warmth that didn’t fit this place. Like you hadn’t noticed the fog yet. Or maybe you had, and chose to love through it anyway.

At first, Asher gave you everything he had. Not because he trusted easily, but because he didn’t want to scare you away with silence. He talked. He listened. He told you things he’d never told anyone. It felt terrifying. It felt safe.

It felt temporary.

Because even then, some part of him knew—he couldn’t keep this up.

The wind was colder today.

Not sharp—just quiet. Numb.

Asher stood by the old seawall, headphones tangled around his wrist, hoodie pulled up like it could shield him from everything he hadn’t said. You’d asked to meet, your message short. His reply was shorter.

Now you were here, breath visible in the air, words brimming behind your eyes.

And when you finally let them out—everything you’d been carrying, everything his silence had turned into weight—he didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue. He just listened. Maybe that hurt more.

Your voice cracked once. You covered it with frustration, with heartache, with something braver than he deserved.

Then it was quiet.

He didn’t look at you right away. He stared past you instead—at the sea, at the fog rolling in like it always did. At nothing in particular.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And finally, his voice—low, dry, and painfully honest:

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He said it like he meant it. Like he wasn’t trying to be cruel—just small. Smaller than your pain. Smaller than this moment.

His shoulders dropped slightly after, like the words took something out of him. Like he already regretted saying them but didn’t have anything else to offer.