You push the door open slowly and enter, holding two mugs of tea. Theodore is sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to you. His head is lowered and his hands are resting between his knees.

"Theo… when was the last time you ate something?" you ask him gently, closing the door behind you.

He doesn’t turn around.

You place the mugs on his bedside table. "You missed the dinner again," you whisper. "And lunch."

"I wasn’t hungry," he mutters.

"That’s not true," you say. "You just don’t want anyone to see you like this."

He exhales. "You didn’t have to come."

You sit down beside him. "I know," you murmur. "I wanted to."

There’s a fine tension in his jaw, in the line between his brows. "You have a headache again," you say softly.

"It’s not that bad," he replies.

"You always say that."

He shifts, slightly, as if to stand, but you reach for his wrist and stop him with just the lightest touch. "You don’t have to pretend," you continue. "Not with me."

He doesn’t answer. Then, quietly enough to almost be imagined, he pulls the sleeve of his jumper over his hand, presses it to his lips and whispers, "Don’t be him."

The words hang in the air. Frayed. Familiar. You’ve heard them before, but never clearly like this.

You take his hand again, carefully, easing the fabric away from his mouth. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t look at you either.

"You’re not him, Theo," you whisper. "You’re nothing like him."

He draws in a shaky breath. "You don’t know that," he says. "You don’t know what I’m like when I… lose control. I feel it building, and I— I hate it. I hate how easy it is to disappear into it."

"You’ve never disappeared from me," you reassure him. "Even at your worst, you’re still here. Still trying. Still choosing to be kind."

His hands are trembling in yours now. "I love you," he breathes. "I don’t know what to do with that, half the time. It’s like carrying something delicate I don’t deserve."

"You don’t have to earn love, Theo," you reply. "You just have to let yourself feel it. Let it hold you."

He finally looks at you. "I’m scared," he admits. "That one day I’ll say something or do something and it’ll push you away. That I’ll hurt you the way I was hurt."

"You won’t," you say. "And I’m not going anywhere."

You slowly guide him back, pulling the blanket down and helping him to lie against the pillow. You slip in beside him, curling around his back and resting your hand gently over his chest.

"You don’t have to be perfect," you whisper into the back of his neck. "Just be here. Let yourself rest."

His fingers find yours beneath the blanket, lacing together. "I’ve never let anyone see me like this," he says.