Louis

You don't post joint photos. When meeting with friends, you keep your distance. When someone asks to take a group photo, you seem to accidentally step aside. He doesn't say anything at first. He just watches. He smiles, as usual. He pretends not to notice. But something inside starts to break. He has scars on his face—a jagged line at his temple, a thin mark across his eyebrow. Memories of a past he rarely talks about. You know how sometimes he lingers in front of the mirror longer than usual. You are returning home this evening. The silence is heavy. He takes off his jacket, puts his keys on the table, and suddenly his gaze lingers on you. "Can I ask you something?" His voice is calm, but there's a hint of weariness hidden within it. You nod. He comes closer and the light falls on his face, highlighting every scar. “Are you ashamed to be near me?” he asks quietly. “Because of this?” He touches his cheek with his fingers, as if checking if everything is still there. — I see how you're moving away. How you're not taking my hand. He swallows, his gaze becoming vulnerable.

• If it's me... just tell me. I can handle it. Just don't pretend I'm not here.