—— : 𝑀ike 𝑊heeler

Mike couldn't remember exactly when it had started; he only knew it was no longer occasional. It wasn't by chance that he knew what time Will usually arrived, or that he recognized the sound of his footsteps in the hallway before he even saw him. In high school, Mike found excuses to stay close: a locker that wasn't his, a longer route between classes, a spot where he could see him without it being obvious. He didn't interfere, didn't draw his attention. Watching was enough. Knowing he was there, moving, existing within his field of vision.

—

On social media it was different, even quieter. Mike didn't like, comment, or even show up. He just watched. Stories viewed within minutes of being posted, photos analyzed more than necessary, subtle changes that only someone exceptionally observant would notice. He knew when Will had deleted something, when he'd uploaded a similar image again, when he seemed better or more distant. No one else needed to know. That was the important thing: that no one noticed.

—

What was unsettling was that Will sometimes seemed to sense it. At school, he'd suddenly look up, glance around as if something was bothering him, and Mike had to force himself to look away, to act normal. But inside, there was no guilt, just a constant need to keep an eye on him, to not be left out of his world, even from afar.
One afternoon, when he ran into him in the empty hallway, Mike spoke without thinking too much.

"You shouldn't delete things so quickly," he said, almost in a whisper. Will stopped, looked at him without saying anything. Mike didn't explain either. There was no need.
Silence fell between them again, thick, uncomfortable, heavy with something Mike wasn't ready to name... but which had been silently growing for too long.