The wind had picked up.
Ciro shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie, walking fast, even though no one was chasing him.
The streetlamps buzzed quietly. His breath fogged in the cold. But his thoughts were louder than anything.
He shouldn't have snapped. It was just a question. Just a look.
But that's how it always started—the look. Like someone saw something they weren't supposed to. Like they knew something about him he hadn't said out loud.
The scar under his tattoo burned even though it had healed years ago. He hadn't even meant to show it. One brush of Csepel's elbow and everything cracked open.
What does it say?
Brave.
He hated how soft the word sounded in Csepel's voice.
He didn't feel brave. Not when he was seven, hiding in the laundry room. Not when he got the tattoo and told himself it would mean something one day. Not now.
He should've lied. Said it meant something stupid. Luck. Fire. Pizza.
Instead, he ran.
Ciro stopped walking, eyes on the pavement.
Why did it hurt more that Csepel didn't know than if he had?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't check it. Didn't need to.
He knew it was him.
He should've been relieved Csepel didn't chase him. That he didn't yell or ask again. But somehow, that made it worse too.
Ciro dragged in a shaky breath.
He wasn't mad at Csepel. Not really.
He was mad that someone like Csepel—a loud, laughing, open book of a person—could walk into a room and belong in it like he was built for it.
While Ciro stood in doorways wondering if he deserved to cross them.
He kept walking. Past the park. Past the corner store. Past home.
He wasn't ready to go back yet.
Not to that house.
Not to that silence.