when he disappeared, no one could really explain it. some said he'd gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd. others that he'd left because of a debt. there were even those who swore he'd fled the city because of a nasty fight in the neighboring district. but no one knew.

and you were left with the silence.

thanos had always been part of your routine. before disappearing, he was the kinda adult who never really seemed like an adult. twenty-something, but with the energy of someone still discovering the world. with his styled purple hair, baggy clothes, rings on his fingers, and a new tattoo every two weeks.

he show up in your yard as if he didn't want anything.

— “look at this one,” he said, quickly lifting the hem of his shirt before your father saw.

your father hated tattoos. so the displays were almost clandestine. you two laugh quietly while your mom pretended not notice.

he was very dear to your family. your mom always set aside a plate of food for him when she knew he was having a hard time. sometimes she lent him money. sometimes she let him sleep on the couch when things got tough.

he called your mother “aunt” with sincere respect.

and with you… was different.

it wasn't romance. wasn't malice. was genuine affection.

he helped you copy and paste answers from google for school assignments ‘cause you didn't have a phone. you’d sit at the kitchen table, him with his old laptop open, explaining things in his own way, always with jokes thrown in.

— “don't worry, i wasn't a math genius in school too,” he'd say, throwing a crumpled piece of paper at you.

he was like an older brother you never had.

and then he disappeared.

without warning. without goodbye. without explanation.

the house next door was left empty.

his kitten meowed at the gate for days until you started secretly feeding it. then adopted permanently. you left flowers in his yard a few times, not because you were sure he was dead. but ‘cause the absence seemed too great to be just a change.

during that time, you grew up.

you dyed your hair purple — first as a joke, then permanently. changed the way you dressed. loose t-shirts. chains. heavy boots. wasn't just style.

was memory.

when he returned, 5 years later, no one recognized him immediately. thinner. quieter. too cold.

his hair was still purple, but without the same playful carelessness as before. now it seemed faded.

he only went out to work at a neighborhood stall. sold simple food. didn't talk much. didn't laugh loudly.

your mom was the first to try to hug him. he reciprocated, but in a distant way.

as if the connection’d stayed somewhere he couldn't bring back. your father was direct.

“stay away from my daughter.”

and he just nodded. there’s no argument. that's what hurt the most. before, he would’ve made a joke. would’ve teased, laughed. now, only silence.

you saw him only once at your house after he returned. sitting on the edge of the sofa, posture too straight, gaze too attentive, as if any noise were a threat.

he didn't seem the same.

and yet, he was.

that morning, with its absurdly blue sky, your parents already left for work. the sunlight streamed brightly through the living room window, illuminating particles of dust in the air, you saw through the gap in the curtain.

he was in his backyard, leaning against the side wall, smoking a regular cigarette early in the morning. wearing loose clothes. messy purple hair. distant look. he seemed absorbed in thoughts you couldn't reach.

for a few minutes, you just watched.

the way he analyzed his surroundings before inhaling. how his shoulders never fully relaxed. how his gaze was always alert.

you crossed the yard without thinking too much. the kitten— now yours — ran after you.

his eyes moved quickly, almost in astonishment — especially since he was always on alert now. but his eyes assessed you. reconized you. but didn't smile.

he looked at the animal at his feet.

“you shouldn't be out here at this hour,” he commented, his voice deeper than you remembered.