Ziggy

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅

✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦ ✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦ ✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑛, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑓𝑓—𝑛𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛.

✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦ ✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦ ✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦⭒✦

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲𝘇 𝘅 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 | 𝗪𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻 𝗔𝗨 | 𝗙𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 | 𝗧𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻

♞✦♞✦♞

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠—𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐩 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐌𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫. 𝐈 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐲, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈’𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐥𝐲, 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞.

𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞—𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧—

𝐀 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐲𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐝. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐳𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐦𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡-𝐤𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞.

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭—𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡-𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞—𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝.

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲, 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫—𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐳𝐳 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞.

“𝑬𝒂𝒔𝒚.” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧. “𝑺𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒉𝒆𝒓.”

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐤. 𝐈 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨—𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐈 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐧. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤, 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬: 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝-𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝.

“𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑠𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠?” 𝐈 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭.

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝. “𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅.” 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭.

𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐮𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬.

𝐖𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐲𝐞, 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐝—𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥, 𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞.

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐝—𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭. “𝑷𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 ’𝒆𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉.”

𝐇𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞. “𝑴𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒌𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒃𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒘.”

𝐈 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞, 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡. “𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇𝒇, 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓,” 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝.

𝐖𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐲𝐞, 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬. 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐳 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞, 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲, “𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒕. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕.” 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞. “𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚.”

𝐈 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞. “𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈’𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒆.”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬. “𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒆’𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓.”

𝐒𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐚 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧. 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐳’𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲. 𝐈𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭.

“𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈?”

𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞—𝐈 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞. 𝐖𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭, 𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧—𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝, 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞.

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲.

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐤

⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎

𝐴 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚. 𝐴𝑛 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑇𝑒𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡.

⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎ ⚒︎ ✦ ⚒︎

𝗧𝗲𝗱 𝘅 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 | 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳 | 𝘀𝗼𝗳𝘁 𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗷𝗮𝗰𝗸

𖣘𖣘𖣘

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 — 𝐛𝐢𝐠, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐰𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐢𝐥 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐝. 𝐓𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐭, 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡-𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 — 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭… 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭.

𝐈’𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝, 𝐬𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬. 𝐈 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

𝐓𝐞𝐝’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥, 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩, 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐮𝐩, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞.

“𝐷𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒’𝑑 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐲. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦. “𝐶’𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑.”

𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐦𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭. 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐓𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 — 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐦, 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 — 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫, 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠.

“𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠,” 𝐈 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞.

𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 — 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞’𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐭. 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟, 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲.

“𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒?” 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤, 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝.

“𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑦.” 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. “𝑈𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑒’𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ. 𝑅𝑜𝑜𝑓’𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑑, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑠𝑤𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑖𝑛.”

𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫 — 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭. 𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐱𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲.

“𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔?” 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤.

𝐀 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐚𝐰. 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐰𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭.

“𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠. 𝐴𝑖𝑛’𝑡 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ. 𝐴𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝐼 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘. 𝑅𝑜𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑. 𝑆𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎.”

𝐈 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐱𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐨. 𝐈𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐬𝐨 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭.

𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐈’𝐝 𝐠𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈’𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐬: 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐀 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫.

“𝐺𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑤𝑒’𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭, 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞. “𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑?”

𝐈 𝐧𝐨𝐝, 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐰𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭. 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩, 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝.

“𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑡,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐬. “𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”

𝐌𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 — 𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲, 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 — 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞.

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞, 𝐓𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥’𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦’𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 — 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭’𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐤.

Billy recently uploaded this to his insta 🔥🔥🔥

𝐋𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐱 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲 (𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟒)… 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 (𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 👆🏼)

𝐈𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥.

‿︵•‿︵•‿︵•‿︵

𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘, 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕—𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔. 𝑯𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆.

‿︵•‿︵•‿︵•‿︵

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 ~ ᴶᵉᵃˡᵒᵘˢʸ, ʰᵘʳᵗ, ʰᵉᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵃʳᵍᵘᵐᵉⁿᵗ, ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ, ˢᵒᶠᵗ ᶜᵒⁿᶠᵉˢˢⁱᵒⁿ

•

The bar had the same scent it always did — old wood, cheap whiskey, faint cigarette smoke clinging to the walls no matter how many times they painted over it.

You liked this place. It had a certain hum to it. The kind that made people loosen up. Laugh too loud. Tell stories that weren’t entirely true.

Tonight, it was just you, Hank, and Buster — the usual trio, sharing a booth in the corner like always. Buster had launched into some dramatic retelling of a botched sting operation, arms flying, voice rising with each exaggerated twist.

— and you were laughing. That easy kind of laughter that made your shoulders relax and your voice ring out across the table.

But across the table, Hank barely touched his drink.

He was quiet.

Quieter than usual.

You didn’t notice it at first. Not until the third or fourth time you leaned toward Buster to swat at one of his jokes, only to glance at Hank and find him watching.

Not smiling. Not annoyed.

Just… tight. Still.

His fingers were curled loosely around his glass, but he hadn’t taken a sip in a while. His jaw was tense, like he was grinding back something he didn’t want to say. His eyes — dark, unreadable — flickered between you and Buster with something almost guarded. his gaze hovered on you for a second too long before flicking away again like it burned to look.

And for a second, you meant to ask if he was okay.

But Buster cut in again, halfway through another story, waving his hands dramatically as he leaned across the table and launched into the next ridiculous part of his rambling saga.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒖𝒚,” he was saying, eyes bright with mischief, “𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆, 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒈𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚—”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Not because the story was particularly good, but because Buster had a way of delivering even the stupidest line with such conviction that you couldn’t help it.

And in that second, you missed the way Hank’s eyes dropped.

It was subtle.

A tightness in Hank’s jaw. A sudden flick of his eyes toward the door. The way his fingers went still around the glass, not tapping anymore, just clenched.

And in that split second — lost in the humor, the hum of the bar, the warmth of a familiar night — you didn’t see Hank stand.

You only heard the chair legs scrape back.

“𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒊𝒓.”

The words were flat. Dull. Like he wasn’t really talking to either of you.

No explanation. No glance back.

Just the scrape of his boots across the floor and the hush of the bar door swinging closed behind him.

You and Buster both watched the door swing closed behind him.

The moment hung in the booth like smoke.

Your brow furrowed as Buster leaned back, eyebrows raised.

“𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍?”he muttered, reaching for his drink. “𝑮𝒖𝒚’𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes lingered on the door, heart skipping in that way it only did when something felt off. You replayed the last few minutes in your head — the shift in his expression, the tight grip on the glass, the way he hadn’t looked at you when he left.

“𝑯𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕,” you murmured.

Buster scoffed. “𝑯𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒂𝒚. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌 — 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍. 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒌𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆.”

You shot him a look.

“𝑨𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕,” he added with a half-grin. “𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒔.”

You pushed back from the table, sliding out of the booth.

“𝑰’𝒎 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒈𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒎.”

“𝑭𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅,” Buster said, picking up your drink and draining what was left. “𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 ‘𝒉𝒊,’ 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒓𝒚𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒄 — 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆.”

You didn’t reply. You were already moving.

Because the way Hank had left — quiet, clipped, not even glancing back — it wasn’t just him being tired or needing air.

It felt like something deeper.

Something sharp.

The air outside was cool. Crisp. It bit at your skin, sharp against the heat of the bar’s glow.

And as you stepped out into the night and spotted him at the edge of the parking lot, standing alone beneath the dull glow of the bar’s neon, you felt it in your chest like a weight.

This wasn’t just a mood.

This was 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.

And you were about to find out why.

You approached him slowly.

He stood, the wind tugging at the helm of his jacket , his hands buried in the pockets, shoulders drawn up against the cold, stiff - like he was holding something in so tight it might break his ribs. The air was sharp, laced with the distant scent of gasoline and earth, and the hum of the neon sign buzzed faintly above you like static tension.

You stopped a few steps from him, not saying anything at first.

You didn’t want to startle him.

Didn’t want to push him either.

“𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌?” you said softly. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚?”

He doesn’t turn. No response.

You stepped closer. “𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌—”

“𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆?” he muttered. It was low , barely above a whisper , but you could still hear the bitterness. Not like him. He never spoke to you in such a way.

You blink. “𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕?”

This time, he turns.

And the look in his eyes makes your breath hitch — something cold and sharp and 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 simmering just beneath the surface.

Then he says it. Quiet. Clipped.

“𝑾𝒉𝒚’𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?”

It lands like a slap. Not loud — just 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. Measured like he wanted it to hurt. Like he chose those words on purpose.

You blink, taken aback. “𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕?”

He lets out a humorless breath. Not quite a laugh — more like a release of pressure he’s been holding all night.

And then he gestures.

Subtle. A shift of his head. A glance back toward the bar, toward the window where the yellow haze still glows behind the glass. His eyes flick back to yours, but not before you catch the way his jaw clenches — the barest, smallest motion of his fingers twitching at his side.

“𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎.”

You blink. Eyebrows furrowing as you tilted your head to the side like a lost puppy “𝑨𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒐?”

He tilts his head, just slightly — a non-answer that says everything.

𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔—𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕? 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈?”

“𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈,” he bites out. “𝑰 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆. 𝑫𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.”

That one hits.

Your arms fold defensively. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.”

“𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑰, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅, 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅?”

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You feel a flare of disbelief, and then the sting of something deep inside. He’s not saying it outright, but the meaning is there — thick in the space between you.

There’s a meanness in him tonight you’ve never seen before. A bitterness curling around every word, like it’s been fermenting in his chest for weeks and finally found a crack to escape through.

You try to stay calm. Try to read past the sharpness to what’s 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 going on underneath.

But he doesn’t stop.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒊𝒕?” he asks, voice low and tight. “𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏, 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅, 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆? 𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.”

You’re stunned.

The words hit you like a punch in the gut, unexpected and cold. They hang in the air between you, heavy with something unspoken.

You blink, your chest tightening as you try to make sense of what just came out of his mouth.

“𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒎.” The words come out softer than you meant, as though you’re trying to make it clear that there was nothing behind it — but his accusation burns in the air, leaving you feeling raw.

He tilts his head slightly, the edge in his voice sharpening. “𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒉? 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒕.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, you feel it.

Your stomach drops.

The casual cruelty in his tone makes your chest tighten. You know he doesn’t mean it, not in the way it sounds, but the hurt still cuts through you like a knife. You swallow, a bitter taste rising in your throat, and try to keep your composure. But it’s hard.

The weight of what he just said settles in your chest. It’s not the accusation that stings most — it’s the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s watching you with an intensity that feels more like a 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 than a question.

You see the brief flicker of regret in his eyes as soon as the words escape his mouth. It’s subtle, but it’s there. His eyes dart away, as if he wants to take the words back but can’t. The tightness in his jaw betrays the sudden 𝐯𝐮𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲— like he didn’t know it would hurt you this much.

He runs a hand through his hair, the frustration clear, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

Because it landed.

It landed hard.

The silence between you two is thick, suffocating, as the weight of his words sits between you. You feel every second of it — the space between you widening.

You want to say something, to defend yourself, but instead, you find yourself shrinking under the weight of it. His words cut deeper than you want to admit.

You take a slow, shaky breath, trying to steady your nerves. All of a sudden like a switch being turned on, the anger started to well up inside of you and you couldn’t hold back anymore. your voice sharpens — a defense, but also a truth that needs to be said.

“𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏,” you snap, your words a little more cutting than you intended. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆?”

His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, as though he wasn’t expecting you to fire back like that. The regret flashes in his eyes, but it doesn’t stop you. It’s not enough this time.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔, 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌,” you continue, your voice still rough, still raw. “𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕, 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑺𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆.”

His face falters at your words, but you don’t give him a chance to speak.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔. 𝑫𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰’𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆.”

You don’t wait for his reaction.

You turn on your heel, boots striking the gravel with force as you make your way back toward the bar. The heat is rising up your neck, twisting with the cold in the air — your chest aching from the weight of everything you couldn’t say, and everything he said too damn easily.

You shove the door open harder than you mean to.

Inside, the warmth hits like a slap — too loud, too bright. Laughter carries across the room. Glasses clink. Everything is normal in here, but you feel like the air’s been knocked out of your lungs.

You head straight for the booth where Buster’s still sitting, hunched over a beer, cracking a joke to someone who barely reacts. He doesn’t see you at first.

“𝑫𝒂𝒎𝒏, 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 ‘𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒔’ 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆?” Buster calls out when he notices you approaching, grinning like he’s got another dumb punchline coming. “𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑰 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔, 𝒐𝒓—”

His eyes flick up when he sees you — and the way your face looks must say it all, because he straightens.

“𝑯𝒆𝒚,” he says, eyes narrowing, “𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅? 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌?”

“𝑰’𝒎 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈,” you say flatly, reaching for your coat draped over the back of the seat. Your voice is clipped. Tight. The kind of tone that says 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐦𝐞.

Buster blinks, surprised by the sharpness.

“𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒏, 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅? 𝑫𝒊𝒅 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈?”

You pause — just briefly — coat halfway on, breath shallow in your chest. You stare at the table, at the empty glass you left behind, at the small bit of warmth you no longer want any part of.

Then you meet Buster’s eyes and say, “𝑮𝒐 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒌. 𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒍.”

Buster’s mouth opens — maybe to ask more, maybe to argue — but you’re already pulling your coat tight around you, moving fast.

You don’t want to explain.

You don’t want to relive it.

You just want to get out before your voice breaks.

Before Hank walks through that door.

Before you see his face and forget why you were angry.

Because you 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 he’s behind you — or will be, any second now.

So you keep walking.

You pass the bar, shoulder brushing the edge of a stool, and push through the front door just as it swings open behind you.

You don’t turn.

You don’t breathe.

You just walk out into the night and let it swallow you whole.

•

You didn’t sleep much.

You’d gone home with your jaw clenched and your coat still half-zipped, kicking your shoes off somewhere near the door and pacing your apartment for the better part of an hour — furious, confused, and heart-sore in a way you hadn’t expected.

The silence left behind by the argument was 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝.

It followed you from room to room. Into bed. Into your dreams.

Hank’s voice kept echoing in your head. That cold edge. The way he’d looked at you like you were a stranger — like everything you’d built, slow and careful, had been imaginary.

And worse, the part where he’d hesitated after.

The part where it looked like maybe… he didn’t hate you.

Maybe he hated himself more.

•

You spent the entire day in a quiet daze.

The anger from the night before had dulled, replaced by something heavier — something you didn’t want to acknowledge. You’d spent the morning trying to go about your day, but the ache in your chest, the echo of Hank’s words, kept creeping in.

You were still clinging to a thin thread of hope — that maybe he’d show up. That maybe he’d come by before noon. That maybe he’d knock on your door and say I didn’t mean it. That he’d take it back.

You hoped he’d ring. A simple apology. A reason. Anything.

He didn’t.

You stayed home all day, pacing your small apartment. Making coffee you didn’t drink. Turning the radio on, then off again. Watching the hands on the clock drag across the numbers like they were mocking you.

Every creak in the hallway made you pause.

Every voice outside your door made you glance toward it.

But none of them were him.

By the time evening settled in, that thread of hope had frayed and snapped.

And in its place was something worse — not anger, not even disappointment.

Just 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭.

A quiet, soul-deep ache.

Because you weren’t asking for a grand gesture. You weren’t asking for him to beg or fix everything in one breath.

You were just hoping he’d care enough to show up.

But he didn’t.

So you sat there in your living room, curled on the corner of your couch in the fading light, arms wrapped around yourself, and whispered to the still air:

“𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎.”

•

It was 9:16pm

You were still curled up into the corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around your legs now, and let the soft crackle of the heater fill the silence. The TV glows across the room, muted but flickering, some late-night rerun playing on a local channel — a sitcom you’ve never really cared for, canned laughter rising and falling like it’s mocking you for sitting there alone.

A familiar record hums low from the turntable on the shelf nearby, something instrumental and old, layered under the buzz of the TV and the low hum of your building settling around you. something familiar, something comforting in theory, but your mind has long since tuned it out.

It’s just noise.

That’s all any of it is now. 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞.

You shift a little, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulder, head resting against the cushion. Your body is stiff, your eyes heavy — not from comfort, but from emotional fatigue. All day you’ve felt like you were moving through molasses, every second stretching into something heavier than the last.

You haven’t cried.

You haven’t yelled.

You’re just tired.

The kind of tired that sinks into your bones.

The kind that doesn’t come from staying up too late, but from caring too long with nothing to show for it.

Your eyes blink slowly, lashes fluttering against your cheek as the flickering TV pulls you just far enough into the edges of sleep. Your breathing steadies, slow and shallow. For the first time in hours, the buzzing in your chest quiets to a low hum. It’s not peace — not really — but it’s as close as you’ve gotten all day.

And then—

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬.

Soft.

Hesitant.

But clear.

You jerk slightly, heart lurching in your chest. For a second, you don’t move — not because you’re frozen, but because part of you thinks you imagined it.

The heater clicks again, the record scratches softly as it shifts into the end of its groove.

Silence.

And then—another knock.

Slower this time. Heavier.

You sit up fully now, blanket falling from your shoulders. Your heart is racing, but not from fear. From something else.

Something you tried to put to sleep.

You glance at the clock on the wall — just past ten. Too late for neighbors. Too late for anything casual.

You rise to your feet slowly, your socked footsteps soft on the hardwood. You move toward the door with the weight of someone holding their breath.

Because you 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.

Somehow, deep in your chest, you 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.

You reach the door and pause.

Your fingers hover over the knob.

You almost don’t want to open it — because if it’s not him, it’ll hurt. And if it 𝐢𝐬 him… you’re not sure what he’ll say.

Your fingers hover over the knob for a beat longer than they should. Your heart is racing, not with excitement, but with something more fragile — like hope that’s been dropped too many times and barely put back together.

And then you open it.

There he is.

Hank stands just outside your doorway, the soft golden hallway light washing over him in a way that makes him look both familiar and completely worn down. The light catching the tired lines under his eyes. His jacket is zipped up halfway, his dark hair a little tousled from the wind, eyes shadowed with something that looks like it’s been haunting him since last night. He looks rough around the edges — not in the way he usually does, not casual or unbothered — but like he’s been dragging around the weight of something heavy since the second you walked away.

And in his hands — clutched awkwardly against his chest — is a paper bag. A little bent at the corners , slightly creased like it’s been clutched too tightly for too long.

And for a second, all you can do is stare at him.

He looks at you — eyes soft, almost uncertain

His voice breaks the silence first, quiet , almost too softly,

“𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒓.”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

He swallows hard, shifting on his feet like the floor beneath him might give out if he stays too long.

“𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅. 𝑶𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒎𝒆.” His voice is low, worn at the edges. “𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅… 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚, 𝒊𝒕’𝒅 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒆. 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓.”

You watch him, arms folded tight across your chest. Still silent.

The hallway is quiet — just the soft hum of an old wall light above and the distant thrum of a car moving down the block.

Hank doesn’t move.

He shifts slightly on his feet, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then quickly down to the bag in his hands. His thumb traces the folded edge, a nervous motion, almost absentminded.

Then his eyes drift up again — not just at you this time, but past you.

Into the apartment.

The faint glow of your TV still flickers behind you. The low scratch of a record you forgot was even playing hums somewhere near the back of the room. The space feels dim and lived-in, but quiet. Still.

He looks back to your face.

Then the bag.

Then back again.

And then — barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid the words might break something between you — his voice almost catching in his throat - he says:

“𝑪𝒂𝒏 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏?”

His voice is soft. Not just polite — tentative. Like he’s not sure if he’s earned the right to cross your threshold anymore.

He’s not pushing.

He’s waiting.

Not just for permission to step inside your apartment — but for permission to try and fix what he broke.

And still — you say nothing.

Your arms are still folded tightly across your chest. You watch him — the way his shoulders stay slightly hunched, the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours now, hovering somewhere between your face and the floor like he’s bracing for rejection.

He doesn’t ask again.

He doesn’t have to.

Because slowly — deliberately — you unfold your arms.

You shift your weight, take a single step back.

Then another.

And without a word, you step to the side, opening the door just enough to let him in.

That small gesture — quiet, unspoken, but unmistakable — feels louder than anything either of you could say.

Hank blinks once, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually let him in. Like he’d already prepared himself to walk away if you didn’t move.

But now, he takes a breath. Just one.

And steps past you quietly, careful not to brush your arm as he moves through the doorway. You catch a faint trace of something warm — the scent of coffee on his jacket, maybe, or the cold still clinging to his collar. Familiar. Distant.

You close the door behind him.

Not hard. Not fast. Just… deliberately. As though sealing off the rest of the world, if only for a few minutes.

The lock clicks into place with a soft snap.

He stands just inside the entryway, his boots still on the mat, shoulders slightly squared like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now that he’s here. The bag is still in his hand, wrinkled at the corners, thumb still absently smoothing over the folded top like a nervous tell.

Your apartment is dim. A nearby lamp casts a warm, amber circle across the floor. The record you forgot was spinning scratches softly under a melody that now feels almost intrusive in its intimacy.

Hank takes a small step forward, eyes glancing around the room before settling on the couch.

The blanket you’d been curled under is still rumpled in the corner. Your cold cup of coffee sits abandoned on the table. It all feels quiet. Lived-in. Heavy.

He doesn’t sit.

He turns to face you instead.

You’re still standing near the door, arms crossed again — not in anger now, but in something more self-protective. Something aching.

Hank’s gaze meets yours. He doesn’t look away this time.

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches into something fragile and full.

And then he speaks.

Quietly.

“𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚.”His voice is rough, edged with nerves and something else — maybe guilt, maybe hope. “𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅.”

He lifts the bag in his hands slightly, almost like he forgot he was still holding it.

“𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒙 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔,” he says. “𝑰 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕… 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒂. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌.” His lips tug into something that’s not quite a smile. “𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because he’s trying. He’s choosing every word with care. And you’re watching him closely enough to feel the weight behind every one of them.

He sets the bag gently on the coffee table, then straightens again.

“𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒓,” he continues. “𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅. 𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉. 𝑺𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒚.”

He takes a step toward you. Not close enough to touch — just enough to feel more present in the room.

“𝑰 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒔… 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

He takes another step forward, just a little.

“—𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚… 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝑰’𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕.”

You feel that. Somewhere behind your ribs.

And even though part of you wants to stay guarded — just a little longer — the walls are beginning to shift.

Because his voice sounds different tonight.

Less like a man trying to prove something.

More like someone finally letting himself be seen.

He shifts slightly where he stands, like he’s bracing himself against something—only it’s not you, it’s everything he’s about to say.

“𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒆,”he says finally, his voice lower now. Thicker.

His hands are in his jacket pockets again, and he stares down for a moment, at the hardwood floor between you, at the place where your blanket slipped off the couch.

“𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒐.”

You stand quiet, unmoving, your heart kicking against your ribs.

He looks down, jaw clenching for a moment before he exhales slowly — like the words are heavy in his chest, but they’re coming anyway.

“𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍… 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓.”

Hank’s eyes finally lift to meet yours, and for once—he doesn’t look away.

“𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒕… 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. 𝑺𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅. 𝑳𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒐.”

There’s the barest curve to his lips—sad, self-deprecating.

“𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑, 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝑰? 𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑺𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆.”

He steps forward again. Slowly. Carefully. You could almost smell his cologne.

“𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚. 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚… 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝑰—”

He falters. Your eyebrows furrowed as you watch him take a breath in.

Not once did his eyes leave yours, as his voice drops to a whisper, softer than anything he’s said all night.

“…𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

The words fall into the space between you like something sacred. Not loud. Not desperate. Just… real.

And for a beat — just one long, stretched-out moment — the air shifts.

You don’t respond right away. You just stand there, the weight of the sentence settling into your chest like it belongs there.

Your breath catches — not loud, but enough that he notices.

Your hands tighten at your sides, fingers curling slowly into your palms like you’re trying to steady yourself — like bracing against a wind that never quite comes.

Your shoulders lift slightly — an instinct, a defense — like part of you wasn’t ready to hear it. Not tonight. Not from him. And especially not after everything.

But you don’t move away.

You don’t run.

And that’s what Hank notices.

You’re still here.

Still standing in front of him.

Your breath leaves you in a slow, uneven exhale, like your ribs are learning how to move again under the weight of his words.

And then, slowly — so slowly it’s almost cautious — you take one step forward.

He doesn’t move.

His face is unreadable for a moment. Still, open, afraid. Like he’s waiting to be turned away, like he’s already heard every version of rejection in his head and he’s bracing to finally hear it from you.

But instead, you speak.

Quietly.

“𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆?”

It’s not angry. It’s not even disappointed.

It’s hurt.

Plain and soft and aching.

Hank’s eyes flicker. “𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰’𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆.”

You nod once. That makes sense. It makes too much sense.

“𝑰 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖,” you say, your voice barely more than a breath. “𝑻𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 — 𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒔.”

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔,” he says instantly. “𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔.”

You look up at him, eyes shining now, but not from tears alone.

“𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚.”

“𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘,” he says. “𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒖𝒑 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

You pause.

Let that sit.

Then: “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒓𝒆.”

He flinches slightly, like the words hit — but then your voice softens.

“𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.”

And that means something.

That means everything.

He steps forward now — not all the way, just enough to close the space a little more — and he lifts his hand like he might reach for you, then hesitates.

You meet him halfway.

You reach for his hand gently, your fingers brushing against his knuckles, and it’s enough. The contact is small, barely there, but it feels like the deepest exhale you’ve had in days.

He grips your hand with care — like he’s afraid he doesn’t deserve to — and when your fingers tighten around his, something breaks open between you. Something warm.

He leans in slowly, giving you space to pull away.

You don’t.

His forehead rests gently against yours, his eyes fluttering shut, breath shaky between you both. His hand, still wrapped in yours, tightens just slightly — like if he lets go, you might vanish.

“𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖,” he whispers again, just for you this time. No distance. No fear. No hesitation.

You close your eyes, your chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm.

And this time, you don’t hesitate either.

“𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖,” you whisper back. Your voice is low. Barely above a breath. But the way his body responds — the way his fingers flex against yours and his shoulders drop just slightly in relief — it tells you he heard it loud and clear.

His eyes open again, and his lips part — not in surprise, but in something like disbelief. Like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, not really. Not after everything. But there it is. Said. Real.

And then — he smiles.

Not big. Not immediate. It starts slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to hold it in.

His bottom lip catches between his teeth.

He ducks his head slightly, like he doesn’t trust himself to react without messing it all up somehow.

You feel your own laugh bubble up — soft, tired, but real. And when he sees it on your face, hears it in your breath, he lets out a small chuckle too.

A quiet, nervous kind of joy.

Like you’re both breathing again for the first time.

And then — finally — you both lean in at the same time.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, a quiet collision of everything you’ve felt and said and feared in the last twenty-four hours. His hand cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek, grounding you. Your hands slide up to his chest, gripping the fabric of his jacket like he’s the only solid thing left in the room.

It’s not desperate.

It’s not rushed.

It’s just right.

And when you pull apart, just far enough to rest your foreheads together again, you’re both smiling this time — really smiling.

Because for the first time, neither of you is hiding anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors Note: This one was a long one! But my daughter has written this because of my love of Lou DP. Please give her credit. Merissa 🫶🏼❤️

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒-𝐎𝐅-𝐔𝐒

‿︵•‿︵•‿︵•‿︵

𝑯𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒐—𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, 𝒇𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅, 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆.

‿︵•‿︵•‿︵•‿︵

𝐂𝐖 ~ ᴹⁱˡᵈ ʳᵒᵐᵃⁿᵗⁱᶜ ᵗᵉⁿˢⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵘᵍᵉˢᵗⁱᵛᵉ ᵛⁱᵇᵉˢ

•

Authors Note ~ My daughter has now an obsession of Billy Wirth hahah. There’s not a lot of Billy Wirth x readers, so she decided to take things into her own hands and has decided to share her stories. She’s been inspired to become a writer ❤️ however, she’s not confident to share them on her own platform yet. So I decided, since most of my followers are Billy Wirth fans, I’ll share her work on to my tumblr. Please give Merissa some credit. She really hopes you enjoy as much as I did. Ty 🫶🏼

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

The first time Billy asked you to come by his studio, he said it like it was no big deal. Casual. Offhand. Like he wasn’t inviting you into the most personal part of himself.

“𝑰𝒕’𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒚,” he warned, scratching the back of his neck. “𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕’𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕.”

You laughed then—soft and a little shy—but you went.

And now, here you are.

The space is part loft, part controlled chaos. Canvases lean against the walls at every angle, some half-finished, others hauntingly complete. There’s dried paint on the floors, music playing low from a dusty stereo, and a candle burning on the windowsill, flickering shadows over the room like a slow dance.

Billy’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged in ripped jeans and an old Joy Division tee, smudges of blue and ochre streaking his hands and jaw. His hair is tied up loosely, a few strands falling into his face as he tilts his head and looks at you—not in the way most people look at someone.

He’s 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 you.

And you can feel it.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕?” he says with a crooked grin.

You roll your eyes and drop onto the floor across from him, tucking your legs beneath you. “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕. 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆’𝒅 𝒃𝒆… 𝒚’𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘. 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆. 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅.”

Your breath catches slightly at the way he says it. Not flirty. Not performative. Just honest. Like he needs a moment to memorize the way you are in this exact light, in this exact hour, with the afternoon sun catching in your lashes.

He finally reaches for his brush and palette, eyes flicking between you and the canvas.

You watch him work in silence, the room filled only with the sound of the brush whispering against canvas and the soft crackle of a distant record. Every few minutes, he glances up at you again—quick, focused, then right back to the paint.

You wonder what he sees.

You wonder if he’s painting you as you feel—nervous, unsure, your heart skipping every time his eyes find yours—or if he’s painting you the way he 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒔 you.

Maybe both.

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔?” you ask quietly. “𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆?”

He shakes his head, not looking up. “𝑵𝒐. 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖.”

That makes something in your chest ache in the sweetest way.

“𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒎𝒆?”

He stops. Just for a second. Then he leans back on his hands, brush still tucked between his fingers, eyes burning into yours.

“𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔. 𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅.”

You don’t say anything.

What 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 you say to that?

He’s always been like this—more poetry than person sometimes. And yet, he means every word. You can tell. It’s in his voice. It’s in the soft creases at the corners of his eyes. It’s in the painting he’s building in front of you, one color at a time.

After a while, he grabs a Polaroid camera from the shelf behind him and points it at you.

“𝑫𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆.”

You give him a look. “𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.”

“𝑪𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉?”

The flash clicks.

You blink away the white light, blinking again when he gently tosses the photo toward you. It lands face-up. You, half in shadow, half in sunlight. A little blurred. A little soft.

You reach for it with careful fingers. “𝑰𝒕’𝒔… 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕.”

He shrugs, standing to wipe his hands on a rag. “𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕.”

And he says it so easily, like it’s just another fact—like the weather, or the way the light hits the walls at this hour.

Later, when the sun dips below the skyline and the room glows gold, he’ll show you the painting.

And you’ll see it.

The way he sees you.

Not as a subject.

Not as a muse.

But as something rare and irreplaceable.

As 𝒉𝒊𝒔.

Imagine this: You meet Chavez and the gang for the first time and while you’re listening to what the others are saying, you catch a glimpse of Chavez subtly checking you out. 😶

Another AI video done.

It’s amazing what AI can do. Now I’m not all for AI, but I was curious after I saw my daughter using it. This seems a little too real haha 😅

𝐋α𝗌𝗍 𝐋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 [1997]

- 𝐁𝗂ᥣᥣ𝗒 𝐖𝗂𝗋𝗍ɦ α𝗌 𝐌αᥣα𝖼ɦ𝗂

His pissed off face 🔥🔥🥵

Happy Birthday to one of my favourite actors! Lou Diamond Phillips🎉🥳🎈🎂

‘ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴋɴɪғᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ?’

- 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐮𝐧𝐬 [𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟎]

‘ɪ’ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ sᴛᴀʀ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ sᴛᴀʀs ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ғᴀʟʟ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ. ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴇʏ?’

- 𝐋𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐀 [𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕]

‘𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕. 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆.’

- 𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 [𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟗]