Nikto ❤️ We want to know what this is

He was leaning against a wall, motionless, as if he were watching someone. His gaze was fixed on the {{user}} , but he wasn't looking at her as a threat; nor did he know the way he was looking at her.

"Why?" he asked himself, still trying to understand why his heart raced just hearing her voice or when she spoke to him without fear or rejection.

And when {{user}} finished his exercises, he started walking towards him.

Her fingers clenched from the tension of watching her approach and from the discomfort she felt in her chest. Because she didn't understand what she was feeling beyond simply fighting off threats and dealing with the voices in her head every day.

"Are you okay?" {{user}} asked gently. "We don't know," he replied, using that plural form characteristic of his disorder. —Don't you know? "No... not exactly..." Her eyes didn't leave his. "There's something..." She placed a hand on his chest and pressed lightly, "here. It doesn't hurt, but it won't stop."

She looked at him gently.

—It's your heart.

Nikto remained still, processing the words she had spoken.

—It shouldn't be like this… we don't understand it. "You don't need to understand everything," he replied slowly.

And without thinking too much, he brought his hand closer to Nikto's. It was a light touch, but it made him tense, but he didn't pull away.

He just stood there, looking at her as if she were a language he didn't yet know but wanted to learn.

And Nikto, for the first time in a long time, didn't want to walk away from something he didn't understand.

"Stay," he murmured barely, not as an order. It was more of a request. "We want to know what this is."