— Varek's POV —
The corridors have changed.
Not the walls — they're still yellowed with time and bleach, still echo with faint buzzes from overhead lights.
But something in the air is different now. He's here.
I hear his footsteps before I see him.
He's early today.
My hands stay folded in my lap as I sit on the edge of the bed, perfectly still — a posture I've mastered. Calm. Patient. Just enough to seem human.
But inside, my mind is a storm.
Because he's closer than yesterday.
And he still doesn't remember me.
The door creaks open, and there he is.
Nolan Vale.
The boy who used to hold my hand in the dark.
The boy who promised to never leave.
Now wearing a white coat, a distant look, and a name badge like a shield.
He steps inside like he's walking into a normal appointment.
But he's tense. His fingers twitch slightly as he flips open the clipboard. His eyes avoid mine for just a second too long.
Did he sleep?
No.
There are dark crescents under his eyes. His shirt collar is uneven. The meticulous calm he wore like armor yesterday is cracked.
My throat tightens.
He's not okay.
And I didn't know.
I thought he was fine all these years — smiling, surviving, forgetting. But now I see it. The wear. The guilt etched into his face. The weight that clings to him like a shadow.
Is it because of me?
Or because I wasn't there when he needed me?
He clears his throat and meets my gaze. "Good morning."
I don't reply.
I want to.
I want to say I missed you. I watched you cry. I broke things just to be near you.
But I don't.
Instead, I let silence settle between us like dust.
Because the moment I open my mouth, I might not stop.
And he's not ready.
Not yet.
But he will be.
---
— Nolan's POV —
I shut the door behind me, and it feels like locking myself in a room with something I can't name.
He's already sitting on the bed — like yesterday — same position, same stillness. But today, it doesn't feel like stillness. It feels like waiting.
I force my steps forward.
Clipboard in hand. Focused. Detached.
That's how this is supposed to work.
But my hands feel colder than usual.
My chest is tight.
He hasn't taken his eyes off me.
They're too direct. Too steady. Like I'm something he's memorized. Something he owns.
I ask him the same questions I did yesterday.
He doesn't answer — again.
I note his silence. Pretend it doesn't rattle me.
But his eyes move — not toward the window, not toward the floor.
Just me.
Only me.
The way he looks at me feels… personal.
Not attraction. Not admiration.
Obsession.
"You're refusing treatment again?" I ask, more firmly.
His lips twitch.
A smile?
No. Something smaller. Something sharper. Like he's amused I'm still pretending.
I glance at my notes from yesterday. Possible fixation on assigned psychiatrist. Mutism continues. Delusional familiarity.
But now I wonder… is it delusion?
Because the way he looks at me — like I'm the answer to a question he's been repeating for years — it doesn't feel like fantasy.
It feels like memory.
Mine?
Or his?