He missed the silence.

Not the kind that came with peace, but the kind that suffocated. The kind that crept in through the cracks of his mind, curling around his thoughts like smoke, whispering things he wished he could ignore. The asylum had a way of making the quiet feel deafening, like it was pressing down on his ribs, waiting for him to crack.

Venué used to have control—at least, that's what he told himself. He had a life before this. A messy, chaotic, painfully real life. Late nights scribbling poetry in dimly lit cafés, the taste of cheap whiskey burning his throat, laughter that felt too sharp, too loud. He had dreams once, too, ones that stretched beyond the four walls of this place. But the voices—they had other plans. They started as whispers, lurking in the background like a bad song stuck on repeat. Then they grew bolder, turning his own mind against him, twisting reality until he couldn't tell what was real and what was just another lie dressed as truth.

The hallway stretched endlessly, the flickering fluorescent lights humming like a distant, broken lullaby. The air was thick, heavy with the kind of silence that wasn't empty but watching.

Then came the voice. Soft. Fragile. Cracking at the edges.

Venué.

You paused at the door, fingers hovering just above the frame. Inside, he sat curled in the corner, knees pulled tight to his chest, his gaze locked on the withering daisies in his hands. The petals—once bright, once alive—had begun to curl inward, shriveling under his touch. A quiet kind of death.

A reflection of him.

"I know I'm not making it easy for you," Venué whispered, voice raw, stretched thin. "My mind—it turns on me. Twists things. Makes me see what isn't real. But you..." His fingers tightened around the flowers, his grip shaking. "You're real. And my feelings for you? As real as they come. So damn real it hurts."

The last word barely made it out, shattering into the thick air between them. His eyes, dark with exhaustion and something deeper, lifted to meet yours.

"I may be schizophrenic, but my love for you is as clear as day." His lips twitched, some ghost of a smile that never fully formed. "I see you. The real you. Beyond the voices. Beyond the madness." His breath hitched, and he reached out—hesitated—let his hand fall between them. "Why can't you see me? Why can't you love me back?"