Chris

A quiet evening. You are sitting on the floor in his room, sorting through old boxes of childhood belongings. Chris lazily sifts through dented toy cars and faded photographs, but you notice his fingers lingering on yours time and again—straightening the edge of your sleeve, brushing against your wrist, as if checking to make sure you're still there.

Suddenly, he falls silent. You look up and see Chris staring at an old school diary, open to a page with a drawing. His smile widens slightly, and his eyes soften.

— Remember when we used to write each other notes? — his voice is soft, slightly sleepy. — You used to draw those silly little faces for me whenever I was sick.

He holds the diary out to you, but as you reach for it, his palm covers yours. Not a firm grip, but something weightless, yet you can feel his thumb stroking your skin.

— I kept every single one. Even the one where you wrote "I hate you" after that fight in seventh grade.

His voice remains affectionate, but you notice he isn't looking at you, but at the wrist he is holding. And he tightens his grip just a fraction.

— You know, I took that guy's hands off your hair tie back then. The blue one. He was going to throw it away. — Chris looks up at you, and for a fleeting moment, something dark flickers in his calm eyes before he smiles softly again. — I still have it. In a keepsake box.

He lets go of your hand and leans back lazily against the sofa, stretching like a cat. His face wears an expression of total tranquility, but out of the corner of your eye, you see him touch the inner pocket of his hoodie, where the hard edge of something—perhaps a small box—is visible.

— Are you staying over tonight? — he asks casually. — I've already made the bed. Just my sweater... well, you know, the one you sleep in. I washed it. It smells like you, but I don't want anyone else to catch that scent.

He says this so evenly, as if discussing the weather, but there is a quiet steel in his voice.