𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘵.2 .ᐟ .ᐟ

The soft sound of the ceiling fan spun above you as you stood in Silas’s room, the door quietly shut behind you. His room looked the same — bed slightly unmade, skateboard leaned against the wall, hoodie draped over his desk chair — but the mood was off.

He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head low as he picked at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve. He hadn’t looked at you since you came in.

You took a hesitant step closer. “Silas…”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose, not harsh, but tight. “You didn’t come.”

Your heart dropped. “I know. I’m—”

“You said you would,” he cut in — still calm, but there was something different in his voice this time. Not raised. Just tight. Like he was holding something back.

You opened your mouth, but he kept going, fingers pulling the thread loose a little more.

“I kept checking the crowd. Even when it started. Even when it was my turn.” He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “I thought maybe you were just running late.”

“I was— I lost track of time, I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s the thing,” he said, finally looking up at you. His eyes weren’t angry. Just hurt. “You didn’t mean to. But you still didn’t show.”

That stung more than if he’d been cold.

“I know you didn’t forget on purpose,” he added, quieter now. “But it still felt like I wasn’t important enough to remember.”