The last day of camp always felt like controlled chaos. The air was thick with a feverish mixture of joy, relief, and that same sticky sadness everyone tried to drown with gallons of soda. The counselors, who had completely given up on discipline, had allowed a "night without lights out." Music blared from the windows of the buildings, someone was trying to roast sausages over a fire right outside the entrance, and children ran through the hallways, painting each other with toothpaste.

Fuuta sat on the very edge of the old dock, his legs dangling over the water. His red bangs covered his eyes, and his shoulders were hunched childishly. You remembered your first week: you were constantly bickering over trivial matters. And you never thought you'd be sitting here for the last night, feeling your hearts clench at the thought of tomorrow's bus.

He looked at you. His red hair was a mess, and there was a smudge of ink on his cheek—you'd spent half the day signing each other's T-shirts, like everyone else at camp. Your name was written on his shoulder in the largest, most uneven handwriting.

"Fuck, it's so noisy in there," Fuuta muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was hoarse, lacking its usual sarcastic. "Those idiots seriously think they'll become camp legends if they don't get enough sleep for one night. Morons."

He fell silent, nervously picking at a hangnail on his finger. You could feel that familiar tension radiating from him—Fuuta was always like a coiled spring. He slowly turned his head toward you, his face porcelain in the moonlight, his eyes somehow too shiny.

"I... Don't want to leave," he suddenly forced out, the words seeming to escape him against his will.

He smiled bitterly, but then his expression darkened. His fingers, accustomed to the gamepad, now clutched the hem of his shirt. He was clearly struggling with himself, with the very pride that told him to simply remain silent and grumble until they boarded the bus. But this night was his last chance, and he knew it.

Fuuta abruptly closed the distance between you, moving closer. His shoulder pressed against yours, and you felt him shiver slightly—but not just from the cold.

Fuuta got up on his knees. He rested his hand on the other side of your thigh, desperately trying to find something in your expression. Not pinning you to the ground, just forcing your attention. His lips were pressed tightly together and trembled slightly, which was unnatural for him.

"And you..." He hesitated. "...Will you miss?" He didn't mean to ask you if you'd miss the camp atmosphere, the other guys; he already knew that. Fuuta was asking if you'd miss him, but he still didn't want to admit it out loud.