The rain was soft but relentless, tapping gently on the windows like it was trying to come in. Moylo Banks had music humming low through his laptop speakers—ambient, moody, perfect for pretending to study.

You were lying on his bed again. Hoodie too big, socks mismatched, your notes abandoned beside you like forgotten thoughts. He sat on the floor with his back to the side of the bed, pretending to scroll through his textbook. But his eyes kept flicking to you.

Your lashes fluttered as you blinked slowly, fighting sleep or thought, he couldn’t tell. The corner of your mouth was tilted down, always just a little sad when you thought no one was looking. But he was. He always was.

"Flip the switch, everything gets heavy."

It used to be easy between you two. Best friends. Inside jokes. Spilled slushies in his car. But lately, the air changed. It stuck to his ribs, weighed down his chest every time you leaned too close and didn’t know it. Every time your fingers brushed his while reaching for the same charger, and he froze, wondering if you felt it too.

Now everything felt sharp.

You shifted on the bed, letting one arm fall limply over the side, fingertips dangling just above his shoulder. You weren’t asleep, not really, but he could hear your breathing slow.

"My mind’s a bitch, playing all of the memories."

It was cruel—the way his brain clung to things. That smile you gave him last spring when he waited outside your class with a hot chocolate. The way you’d braid your hair on long drives. How you called his name when you were drunk and scared.

He closed his eyes. He could see it all. He could feel the moments he didn’t grab—moments he let pass because he didn’t want to lose you.

You stirred again, just barely, and his hand reached up without thinking, brushing against your wrist in a touch so gentle it almost wasn’t there.

You didn’t pull away.

So the lamp stayed on. Like always. He told himself it was for the rain, for the atmosphere. But really, it was for you.