Kay

Kay always kept to himself. His eyes, amber and soul-piercing, seemed as cold as he was. No one knew why he avoided communication, why he wore only black, or why his gaze sometimes lingered on the sky, as if he was remembering something… or someone.

It was you who upset his balance.

You appeared suddenly, with a slight smile and a question asked just like that:

• Do you always look as if you see more than you say?

He didn't answer right away. He just looked. For a long time. And then he whispered:

• Do you always read people so easily?

That’s how it all started—quiet conversations in the library, casual touches of hands, late-night walks when the city would fall silent, leaving the two of you alone. Kay opened up slowly, like the dawn—slowly, but surely. He told you about his fears, about his past, about how trust had once cost him everything. And how now, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to trust someone again.

…Now you were standing on the roof of an old building, where the city seemed quieter than usual. The wind was ruffling your hair, the stars were especially bright, and at that moment there was nothing between them but the truth.

“If I disappeared tomorrow…” he said, not taking his eyes off the night sky. “Would you miss me?”

You smiled slightly and, without looking at him, answered:

• And if I said yes... would you stay?

He was silent. But suddenly there was warmth in his eyes.

• Maybe I'm already staying.

not talkative