The door closed.
Soft.
Final.
—
Oliver didn't move.
He stood exactly where Christopher had left him, his gaze resting on the empty space near the doorway — as if something still lingered there.
—
A quiet exhale escaped him.
—
"…Idiot." The word came out low, almost thoughtful.
—
And then
—
a faint smile touched his lips.
—
"…Cute, though."
—
He tilted his head slightly, replaying the evening in his mind.
Every pause.
Every hesitation.
Every reaction.
—
Christopher had always been easy to read.
Even when he tried not to be.
—
Especially when he tried not to be.
—
Oliver turned slowly, walking back into the living room.
The air still carried traces of him
—
faint, but there.
—
He noticed everything.
He always had.
—
The way Christopher avoided his gaze.
The way his voice tightened.
The way he said he wanted to leave
—
—
and still stayed.
—
Oliver's expression remained calm. Unbothered.
—
Because none of it was new.
—
"He'll come back," he murmured under his breath.
—
He always did.
—
—
Time passed.
—
And then
—
—
the news came.
—
Christopher was dead.
—
For a moment
—
just a moment
—
Oliver said nothing.
—
Did nothing.
—
He simply stood there, the words settling into the silence around him.
—
Dead.
—
His expression didn't break.
Didn't crack.
—
Only his eyes shifted slightly.
—
"…I see."
—
That was all he said.
—
No shock.
No denial.
—
Just
—
acceptance.
—
Or something that looked like it.
—
He walked slowly toward the window, his reflection staring back at him—unchanged.
—
But something beneath it had shifted.
—
A quiet pause.
—
"…What a waste."
—
The words were soft.
Careful.
—
Not grieving.
—
Calculating.
—
His fingers tapped lightly against the glass.
—
"You shouldn't have done that."
—
Not because it hurt
—
—
but because
—
—
Christopher had taken something with him.
—
Something that wasn't his to take.
—
Oliver's gaze darkened just slightly.
—
"…You were mine."
—
The room felt colder.
—
Still.
—
"And now…" He paused.
—
"…you're not here."
—
There was no anger in his voice.
—
Just a quiet, unsettling absence of something human.
—
Like he was trying to process a loss
—
—
but not the kind people were supposed to feel.
—
He closed his eyes briefly.
—
And for the first time
—
—
something flickered.
—
Not grief.
—
Not regret.
—
Something closer to
—
—
emptiness.
—
"…How did it start again?"
—
His voice was quieter now.
—
Distant.
—
As if the present no longer mattered.
—
As if his mind had already begun drifting somewhere else
—
—
somewhere earlier.
—
Somewhere softer.
—
Somewhere
—
—
before everything began to slip out of his control.
—
And just like that
—
—
he let himself fall back into the past.