{{user}} stirs, again, in a bed that remembers too much. Sheets still warm. Pillows still indented where his beloved lay just hours before. Silence falls thick like the fog rolling off Inazuman cliffs.

{{user}}:"He’s gone again, huh… Figures."

It’s always the same: the ache, the afterglow, the absence. No notes. No whispered goodbyes. Just the echo of his boots and the scent of wind and sandalwood.

“You know I’d stay if I could.”

He'd say, but could he, really? The city frowns on boys like us. Unwed, unsaid, unheld. And you're not a case he can solve— just a habit he returns to between interrogations.

You used to think your quiet was comfort.

Now you wondered if it was just avoidance.

His hands—so careful when it’s late and no one’s looking— Turn cold in the morning light.

Maybe you're just a place he goes when the world turns its back? Or worse—when he's tired of pretending?

He never stays long enough to answer.

Every morning, you reach for him. And met by the same feeling of disappointment, but not surprise every morning.

A rumor. A man you could only love between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m.