Not a day passed without Kyle replaying it.
Those few minutes had lodged themselves somewhere in his mind — like a song stuck on repeat, one he never meant to play.
Fragments surfaced without warning, again and again — cutting in, uninvited.
The warmth of Darren's hands around his wrists. The uneven rhythm of his breath, too close to ignore. And the way the space between them had narrowed — until there was almost nothing left.
They lingered, blurring at the edges, like something suspended, just out of reach.
Kyle swallowed.
He shifted slightly in his chair, eyes still on the screen. His hand stalled mid-motion — then, with a sharp, uncharacteristic movement, he pushed the keyboard back across the desk.
He leaned back, briefly covering his face with his hands.
"Get a grip," he muttered under his breath.
The room felt warmer than it should have. Kyle stood abruptly and went to the bathroom, turning the tap on without thinking.
Cold water hit his skin. He let it run, pressing his palms against the edge of the sink.
He glanced at his reflection. His expression looked wrong — too alert, too exposed.
He looked away.
By the time he returned to his room, the feeling had dulled — not gone, just pushed somewhere quieter.
------------------------------------
It wasn't immediate.
The silence came later.
Kyle noticed it first — not all at once, not as an absence, but as a shift in weight.
Messages still came, but less often. Shorter. Practical. Darren still texted, still replied — just not the way he used to.
Kyle told himself it meant nothing.
Darren was busy. Darren always had work. Darren didn't owe him constant attention.
Still, Kyle caught himself checking his phone more often than necessary. Reading old messages. Just… confirming they were there. Not the messages themselves — the fact that they had existed at all.
He replayed Darren's old voice notes once or twice, smiling despite himself — then felt oddly foolish for it, the smile fading.
Life went on the same way it always had.
Kyle studied. Sat through online classes. Prepared for exams. Worked through programming exercises late into the night — quietly, carefully, as if the walls themselves might report him.
His father believed talent should be proven alone, without help, and had already decided Kyle's future for him. Business. Finance. Something respectable, safe.
Kyle didn't argue.
He read. Played games. Spent his evenings exactly where he always did.
Everything looked the same. Nothing had changed.
And yet, something inside him kept tightening — a small, persistent pull in his chest.
Not panic or sadness. Something simpler than that.
A childish kind of fear. As if he were already losing something he'd barely allowed himself to want.
When Megan asked how he was doing, Kyle answered automatically.
"Fine."
He hesitated, then added, too casually, "Have you heard from Darren lately?"
Megan glanced at him once — quick, measuring.
"Yeah," she said. "Why?"
Kyle shrugged.
"No reason."
She didn't push.
And Kyle didn't ask again. He didn't want to know what that question might reveal.
By the end of the week, Kyle had almost convinced himself he'd imagined the whole thing.
He lost a game he should have won, his fingers missing a timing he knew by instinct. With a quiet sigh, he logged out and let the screen go dark.
For a moment, he just sat there.
Then pushed back from the desk and dropped onto the bed, covering his face with his hands.
"Okay, Kyle," he murmured to the empty room. "What were you expecting?"
Something unpleasant twisted low in his stomach — disappointment, sharp and dull at the same time. He stayed like that a moment too long.
Then forced himself to sit up.
The house was quiet as usual. Empty.
Kyle checked the time, then his phone — nothing new.
A sudden tension coiled in his chest, unprompted. He didn't know why. Only that the waiting had taken on a shape.
Then the doorbell rang.