The days since Soap’s death had been a blur for Simon, a haze of sleepless nights and hollow days. He’d done what he always did when the world became too much—he shut it out. The walls he’d spent years tearing down, brick by painstaking brick, were rebuilt in no time. Each stone was carefully placed: a mumbled excuse here, a vague “not today” there. It wasn’t aggressive, it wasn’t even intentional; it was just… Simon.

You had noticed, of course. How could you not? Simon’s retreat wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was clear as day to anyone who cared enough to look. And you cared. More than he probably deserved, more than he’d ever admit to needing. Still, every offer you made to spend time together was gently declined. Every text, though politely answered, seemed to close the door a little more.

Simon didn’t want to push you away—he wasn’t sure he could bear losing another person. But the weight of grief was something he had always carried alone. That was just the way he knew how to survive. To let someone in, to let you in, meant risking you seeing the parts of him he didn’t even want to face himself.

And yet, you never gave up. You sent him messages late at night when you knew he wouldn’t be sleeping. Short, simple reminders: Call me when you get the chance. It wasn’t pressure, wasn’t overbearing, and Simon appreciated that more than he could say.

Tonight, though, the walls felt different. They weren’t holding anything out; they were closing in. The weight of everything—the silence, the guilt, the anger at himself for not being enough—was suffocating. He sat in the dark with his phone in hand, staring at your name on the screen.

Before he could think too hard, he pressed the call button. The line barely rang twice before you answered. There was a pause on his end, the words catching in his throat. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight, but he finally forced the words out.

“I can feel the walls closing in on me again, {{user}}”