‘Not the right target’

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After the betrayal by his squad and his bitter fall, he had to find his place in the world. High intellect wasn’t his strong suit, and the idea of working with his hands held no appeal — so he ended up with an electric guitar in his hands, playing in a small band. Trust didn’t come easy to him; the painful experience had left deep scars, and he hid his vulnerability behind biting jokes. You bore the brunt of it especially — mocking you somehow made him feel a little stronger amid the other musicians.

One day, sitting in the studio, he absently strummed the strings, lost in his thoughts, and suddenly realized: his usual target for barbs was nowhere to be found. You weren’t there. It struck him unexpectedly — you never arrived late, never missed rehearsals, as if reliability itself had taken root in your habit of always being on time.

He started looking for you, at first without much enthusiasm, as if trying to convince himself he didn’t care. But little by little, worry crept through his armor of indifference. And then he remembered: your secret hideaway, the makeshift cinema on the rooftop where you loved to escape the chaos.

Climbing up, he stepped under the awning, carefully stepping over piles of cushions and soft blankets, as if wading through a cozy, disorganized world. In the far corner, nearly swallowed by the dim light, you sat: knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them, your forehead resting on your knees. For the first time, he saw you like this — not stubborn, not defiant, but simply immeasurably sad, as if the whole world had grown too heavy to carry.

-“Well, what are you doing sitting here, silly?” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as he loomed over you, trying to make his voice sound as cutting as usual.

-“Do you really think hiding here will make things any better? A storm’s about to break, and here you are, all curled»