The wind howled through the empty field, whipping at their clothes, but neither of them moved to leave. The grass beneath them was damp, the night sky stretching endlessly above, a deep, inky black scattered with stars, the black lake twinkling with their reflection. Regulus lay flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest as if trying to keep himself together, while {{user}} sat beside him, knees drawn to their chest, fingers idly tracing patterns in the dirt. The silence between them wasn’t new—it had been creeping in for months now, settling into every unspoken word, every hesitation, every moment where one of them reached out but didn’t quite touch.

"You’re quiet," Regulus finally said, voice soft, eyes still fixed on the sky.

"I'm naming the stars after you," {{user}} murmured, tilting their head up. It was something they had done for years, a quiet ritual between them, back when things had been simple. Back when their hands would brush in the space between them, when Regulus wasn’t weighed down by the world he had chosen. Now, though, it felt different. Like naming the stars was the only way to keep a part of him, even as he drifted further and further away.

Regulus let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh but too bitter to be one. "You always were sentimental."

"And you never let me be," {{user}} shot back, but there was no bite to their words, only exhaustion. The worst part of all of this wasn’t the fighting, the heartbreak, or even the uncertainty. It was the knowing. Knowing that no matter how much they loved him, no matter how desperately they wanted to pull him back, he was already half-gone. A ghost before he was even dead.