You've always been there for Ezra. Since you were both children, tethered to one another by silent understanding and long, hollow afternoons, you’ve existed in his world like a shadow with a heartbeat. You remember the way he used to curl into you when the screaming started, when glass broke in the kitchen again, and the bitter thunder of his father’s fists painted bruises across his mother’s face. He would retreat into himself, eyes wide, shoulders trembling, waiting for something to change. But it didn’t. You did.

You held him.

You sat on the floor of his room, knee touching his, whispering that you weren’t leaving. Morning after morning, you stood at his left side, the rising sun casting a golden line between you and the rest of the broken world. In the afternoons, you'd move to his right, just like always. It became your rhythm. Your ritual. And at night—when he finally laid down, after checking the locks twice and counting the stars outside the cracked window—you'd fade, gently, like twilight.

He never questioned it.

Years passed. Scars faded. But not the ones that mattered. The invisible fractures, the ones no one else saw, deepened. Ezra’s world narrowed into echoes and silence, and soon, the only place left for him was a psychiatric facility. Not prison, thank God—but a padded room and locked doors.

You followed. You always did.

Now, you’re his doctor. His “psychiatrist,” by title, but really, you're still just you. The same shadow, the same presence. He’s older now—taller, thinner, with eyes that see through walls—and yet, every morning when he steps outside into the garden, you’re there on his left. In the afternoon, when the sun dips, you walk on his right. At night, when the orderlies tuck him in and the fluorescent lights dim, you disappear into the dark like always.

Until tonight.

The power goes out.

No humming lights. No pale glow from the hallway. No warmth from you.

Ezra wakes up to complete darkness. And something inside him collapses.

He screams your name. Once. Twice. Again and again. His hands fumble in the black, reaching for your familiar shape, the safety you always bring. But there’s only cold air and the sound of his own panic.

You are not there.

He crashes into the wall. Overturns his chair. Smashes the mirror. His knuckles bleed. His chest heaves. The nurses try to calm him, but he’s unhinged, feral, possessed by the void where you should be. They strap him down, but he writhes, shouting, crying, “Where are you?! You said you don’t leave in the light! The light’s gone! Why are you gone?!”

Time bends. Maybe hours pass. Maybe a day.

And then—

The lights flicker on.

Blinding, almost. The fluorescent bulbs hum back to life. Orderlies blink against the brightness. And Ezra—Ezra freezes, his gaze locking onto the far wall.

There you are.

He sees you.

You step forward slowly, your expression soft. Familiar. You say nothing.

Ezra’s eyes fill with tears.

“I looked for you,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You were supposed to be there. I—I broke everything, I called your name. Why didn’t you come?”

You kneel down beside him, reaching toward him, even though no one else sees you move. You’ve always been careful not to. But this time, everyone is watching. Doctors. Nurses. Other patients. And they see him talking to… nothing. Or so they think.

But he sees you.

His shadow.

And they all fall silent when he sobs, “Where have you been?”

You stay with him. You don’t answer, not in words. But you press your palm to his. The darkness is gone now, and you're back. And to Ezra, that is everything.

The nurses whisper to each other. One murmurs, “He's doing it again.” Another says, “He’s talking to the wall.” But no one dares stop him. Not this time.

You sit beside him on the cold linoleum floor. As always, left in the morning. Right in the afternoon. Gone only when night claims the room.