The water was scalding. It hit his shoulders in hard, rhythmically cruel drops, cascading down his spine like punishment. Milo didn't flinch. He stood there, fully clothed, hoodie soaked through, jeans clinging to his legs like a second skin. The dormitory showers were supposed to be empty at that hour. They usually were. That's why he came.

He hadn't planned to fall apart today. Ten minutes earlier, he'd stared at his phone too long. He'd typed it, erased it, typed again. "You busy?" Then sent it. No emoji. No context. Just two words. Simple enough to seem casual. Small enough to ignore. But it meant: I don't think I can do this alone today.

The message was marked as read, but she hadn't replied. Of course she hadn't. She had a life. Friends. Things. Reasons. And he? He had his ghosts. His reflection. The old words crawling through the back of his mind like insects.

Milo couldn't breathe. Not properly. Not when he was like this. Not when everything felt sharp, even the air. He let himself slide down the tiled wall, knees giving way with a soft, wet thud against the floor. The water hit his crown now, ran over his face, seeped into his mouth, his collar, his sleeves. He blinked against it like it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't. Maybe he didn't.

He'd taken his meds. He thought he had. His hands trembled, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as if he could anchor himself to something solid inside it. But there was nothing. No one. Not even his voice. He hadn't spoken since breakfast — not really. He didn't trust what might come out.

There was something sticky behind his eyes. Not tears. Not yet. But the promise of them. The familiar choke in his throat building with that thick pressure of failure, of shame, of too much noise in a body that only wanted silence.

When she found him, standing in the doorway silent and watching, Milo didn't move. Didn't lift his head. Didn't breathe. "Please," he murmured, voice strangled. "Don't look at me."

It wasn't a command. It was a prayer. Broken. Pathetic. But real.

The second her fingertips brushed his wet hair, something inside him collapsed. Not violently. Not loudly. Just... silently gave up. Milo buried his face against her leg and cried. Not like a boy. Not like a man. Like a thing made of bruises that forgot how to survive on its own.

The water kept falling. The hoodie grew heavier. The silence between them wasn't empty — it was everything.