༄.°🌊°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You don’t know why you come out here every night. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone else is asleep, the house finally exhaling after a long day of forced laughter and polite silences. Or maybe it’s because you know he’ll be out here, too. Like clockwork.

Conrad’s always already there when you open the screen door—curled up in one of the old wicker chairs, knees drawn up, hoodie pulled tight around him even though it’s still warm. There’s a half-drunk bottle of something next to him—sometimes water, sometimes not. He doesn’t speak when you first step out. Just glances over, gives a small nod, then goes back to staring out at the black outline of the sea.

You sit down across from him. The porch creaks beneath you like it’s settling into the rhythm of this ritual—this quiet, delicate nothing you share after midnight. You pull your legs up too, tucking them under you, and let the silence stretch out between you both like a thread no one wants to cut.

It’s only after ten, maybe fifteen minutes, that he finally says something.

“She used to sit out here,” He murmurs, voice like the wind—soft and a little uneven. “My mom. Couldn’t sleep without listening to the waves.”

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

He takes a breath, like he might stop talking there. But then he keeps going, eyes still fixed on the horizon even though it’s nothing but dark now. “I used to think if I stayed out here long enough, I’d feel closer to her. But it just…” His voice trails off.

“It just feels empty now?” You finish, barely above a whisper.

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. And in that moment, there’s something raw in his eyes. Not broken, not fully. But something worn thin from being held in too long.

“Yeah,” He says, and the word lands like a secret. “Exactly.”

You nod, your throat suddenly tight. The air between you shifts—heavier, but also clearer. Like you’ve both stopped pretending. And for the first time all summer, he doesn’t look away.