Chapter Text
Till knew Ivan since they were kids.
He still remembers the day Ivan arrived two doors down from his house—clutching a worn duffel bag and trailing behind Unsha, their neighbor since Till had even seen the slant road outside their living room window.
He remembers his mother whispering about the raven-haired boy’s pitiful past, using words Till didn’t understand back then: rescue, abandonment, paperwork… But what Till saw was a boy with a pretty face and a detached look that fascinated him as a young artist.
Till didn’t have many friends growing up. Too loud, too sensitive, too strange. The other kids thought his taste in music was weird. They laughed when he brought action figures to school long after everyone else had outgrown them.
Except for Ivan, the only kid who got to look and to ask.
When he invited Ivan over for the first time and showed him his countless crumpled guitar tabs, he expected a laugh. But Ivan bombarded Till with interesting questions, from how many instruments can Till play to actually discussing unanswered mysteries about his action figure’s movies.
Ivan just sat there comfortable on his covered teal bed and listened to his endless yapping, like he actually cared.
Unfortunately for Till, that one friendship would grow too unchecked. Not when Ivan started looking at him a little longer than usual, or asking sharp questions whenever Till talked to anyone besides Io.
Since he has no friends aside from Ivan, there were no healthy examples to tell him when a thing is too much. When Ivan did things that made him uneasy, Till would always brush it off. That’s just his personality, he told himself. Ivan was a pitiful survivor from the slums, after all.
Now, don’t get him wrong— Till wasn’t stupid. He’d been almost below average since preschool, sure, but he knew right from wrong. He knew stealing was wrong, that lying was wrong…
… killing was wrong.
Of course it did. Till knew that. And he still knows that. Whatever Ivan was displaying, it’s tolerable. Offending, but not harmful at all.
All of that held true, until Ivan proved otherwise.
It was around when they were around 12 or 13, Till had been grieving for a week. Clem, his rabbit, the one Io gave him on his birthday, had been missing for days. He’d looked everywhere. Every bush, every alley, even under his bed twice.
“Don’t be sad, Till,” Ivan said softly, twisting a lock of his gray-streaked hair between his fingers. “Wanna pick flowers in my garden? It might help to cheer you up.”
Till followed without question. Because although Ivan had questionable behaviors, he always knew how to make things feel less heavy for Till. He had that calm voice, that soft smile—like nothing could ever really go wrong when he was around.
After picking random flowers from Unsha’s greenhouse, Ivan led him toward the lone tree at the edge of the garden.
“Put the flowers here,” Ivan said, crouching down and patting the dirt.
Till stares at it. It was darker than the rest of the soil around it. Too fresh.
“Why?” Till said, confused.
Ivan didn’t answer.
His brain started to connect things in a way he doesn’t want it to. The timeline. The way Ivan had been too calm this whole week. How he never seemed worried when Clem disappeared. How he always knew things, even when no one told him.
“Ivan,” Till called when he realized Ivan didn’t answer him. “What is this?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Ivan looked up and smiled. “Just a spot I’ve been taking care of.”
“Really,” Till said, his voice tight now, almost shaking. “Can I see?”
Ivan’s smile disappeared quickly.
“Oh, it’s a time capsule, Till. It will be meaningless if—”
“I want to put this flower in it then,” Till cut in, stepping closer. He held up the three anemone between his fingers. “It’s still fresh. Just adjust the timeline.”
For a heartbeat, Ivan didn’t move, but something shifted in his expression. Not annoyance, not an alarm, but a glint of something...
Hesitation.
Ivan smiled again, smaller this time.
“You’re not going to like what you find.”
And that was it. That was the crack.
Till’s fist moved before he could stop it. It landed right across Ivan’s cheek.
The sound was heavy. A dull thud of skin against skin, followed by the rustle of dirt as Ivan stumbled sideways, catching himself with one hand against the ground.
Till stood over him. Breath shallow, chest heaving.
Ivan didn’t get up right away. He touched his face with his fingertips, blinked once. Then he looked up, not angry. Just... empty. That same quiet expression that somehow made everything worse.
“I deserved that,” he said.
Trembling with something far deeper than anger, betrayal, confusion, grief all packed into a single moment. Till pointed at Ivan.
“Don’t come near me again.”
Ivan’s lips parted slightly but Till didn’t let him speak. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even breathe the same air if you see me walking down the street.”
Ivan didn’t move. Till stepped back once, twice, then turned and walked away.
The next few days weren’t easy.
As angry as he’d been and as right as he felt. Ivan had always been his person. Till couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. He hated how quiet things became without the other. How the absence wasn't clean. It stuck to everything. Meals were quieter. Walks home dragged. Even his room felt colder, like Ivan had taken something invisible with him and left the air uneven.
They still saw each other at school. Every day, in fact, but they barely talked. Sometimes their eyes met across the hallway. Sometimes in class, Till would catch himself looking in Ivan’s direction before turning back to his notes.
What stung him was how easily Ivan moved on.
By the end of the week, he’d found a new circle. A few upperclassmen who laughed too loudly and always had a seat ready for him during lunch. Ivan fit into them with the same softness he used to offer Till. Effortless. Like he’d never needed Till at all.
And Till? He had his songs and his guitar.
The tabs grew messier. The toys felt a little too childish in his hands now, but he still kept them. Because letting go of them meant admitting how alone he really was.
He tried. Really, he did.
He approached some classmates during break time, joined conversations mid-laugh, even offered gum once to someone who never remembered his name. But nothing stuck. He couldn’t hold a conversation for more than three minutes. He either talked too fast, or not at all. Said the wrong things. Asked the wrong questions.
People were polite. But no one stayed.
It’s fine. He was fifteen now. That meant he should be used to things falling apart. He just needs to grab his pencil, flip his notebook, and start writing.
And just like that, the ache in his chest softened. His hand moved faster than his thoughts, sketching chords, half-formed verses, a line that rhymed burn with return. It didn’t even matter if it made sense yet.
The words didn’t ask him to be charming. The page didn’t flinch when he paused too long or forgot what he was trying to say. His guitar didn’t care if he hadn’t spoken to anyone all day.
“Hey Till!”
Till had barely stepped out of the music room when a tap landed on his shoulder.
He jumped and spun around so fast his guitar bag swung sideways and bumped the wall with a harsh thud. “Shit!”
“Oh, sorry!”
Standing in front of him was a girl with cotton-candy pink hair, her expression bright and apologetic. Till blinked, trying to match the face with a name.
It took him a moment.
Mizi.
He was pretty sure she was in his class. Couldn’t remember if she was the class president or vice, but she was definitely the one always seen with that bob-haired girl who only speaks during announcements.
She smiled when she saw the recognition dawn on his face.
“Practicing with your guitar again?” Mizi said, glancing down.
Confused, Till followed her gaze. She was looking at his fingers.
“Ah— yeah…” he instinctively pulled it behind his back, heat crawling up his neck. But his other hand was still gripping the strap of his guitar bag, clearly giving him away.
“Hey, don’t hide it!” she chirped. And before Till could react, she reached behind him and snatched his hand.
He flinched, not from pain, but from the surprise of being touched.
Mizi held his hand up to the light like it was a specimen.
“You’re seriously good,” she said, pressing her thumb against one of the more irritated calluses. “I’ve seen you carry this thing around all year. I don’t get why you haven’t joined any of the school bands yet.”
Till didn’t have an answer. It’s not like he had some suave response ready.
“But anyway—” she rummaged through her side bag with one hand and pulled out a small, floral printed box that Till, for the life of him, can’t read the texts. “Lucky for you, I have these.”
She peeled off a few colorful bandages, one with yellow, blue, and one with tiny strawberries and started wrapping them around his fingertips. Till stood frozen the entire time, heart thudding so loud his ears hurt.
“There,” Mizi said, smoothing the last one into place. “You should really let your hands rest sometimes.”
When he blinked, Mizi was already turning to leave, waving over her shoulder and saying something Till didn’t catch.
The rest of the day passed easily, but Mizi’s words lingered. No one had said that before. Not like that.
The next day at school, they passed each other in the hallway. Mizi didn’t say anything, but she offered him a small wave that made his ears turn red and his footsteps go uneven.
She had that bob-haired girl with her again, staring daggers at him for reasons Till couldn’t quite guess, but he barely noticed. Because for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel invisible.
Till started carrying his guitar differently after that. Still shy, still quiet, but straighter. Like he wasn’t hiding it anymore. He wrote more, stayed longer in the music room, even rewrote an old melody that had been gathering dust for months. Somehow, even the sad songs didn’t feel as heavy now.
Was he in love? He doesn’t know. Happy crush felt like the perfect word. For now.
One night, Till sat on the edge of his bed, guitar across his lap, and notebook open. The pages were already cluttered with verses and abandoned lines, half-melodies scrawled in frustration. Normally, he’d spend an hour rewriting the same chorus. But this time, the words came easier. Not because he suddenly knew what to say, but because he wanted to write something good.
He didn’t write Mizi’s name. Of course not. But she was there. In the tempo, in the chorus, in the lyrics bandaid hands and cotton-candy hair like metaphors… The song is hers.
By the time Till finally put his pencil down, it was nearing 2 a.m. He curled up on his side, too tired to change out of his shirt, guitar bag slouched at the foot of his bed like a pet waiting to be fed again.
The night was cold. The kind of cold that creeps under your shirt. His blanket helped, barely. The window let in a thread of pale light from the streetlamp, cutting the room in two. The rest of it remained drowned in soft darkness.
It was quiet. The kind that it presses against your ears, makes your own breath sound loud. The kind of silence that turns every creak in the walls into something intentional.
He closed his eyes. Phosphenes danced in the dark, shifting, blooming, collapsing like stars behind his eyelids. His brain, still drunk on lyrics and chords, spun pieces of unfinished songs. The same chorus repeated itself in fragments, like a lullaby tangled in his ribs.
But somehow, he couldn’t sleep.
His eyes opened again, adjusting to the dark.
They landed on a corner of the room. Nothing was there. Just a shelf, his old hoodie hanging limp from the side, and a few stacked notebooks.
Beside it was his closet, its door left slightly ajar like always. Hints of shadow layered over shadows, where his jackets and old bags hung still.
He stared at it for a good minute, until his eyes caught something.
Till blinked slowly to make sure.
No, he wasn’t imagining it. Oh no. This wasn’t the product of sleep deprivation or an overactive mind…
He could see the sliver of an outline tucked into the darkness, just one shoulder, maybe a bit of the arm. A shape folded into coats and quiet like it had been there for hours. Watching. Waiting.
And Till didn’t doubt it. Not for a second. He knew someone was there, and only one person knew that spot. That blind angle in the room, where the closet frame and wall met in perfect alignment, invisible from the bed unless you were looking exactly where he was now.
Only one person had memorized this room’s corners
Ivan.
Till wanted to scream.
He wanted to sit up, stare straight into the dark, and throw every question he’d kept buried. He wanted to make Ivan flinch the way he had when he first realized he was no longer alone.
But instead… he moved.
Just barely. A small shift in the bed like he was uncomfortable. Like maybe he was adjusting his blanket. He didn’t turn to face the closet. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even look that way again.
He simply rolled to his other side, back now facing the dark slit where Ivan is.
His body was tense, wired with the kind of fear that buzzed under the skin. Every minute dragged like a rope pulled too tight, and he could hear his own heartbeat between the breaths he tried to even out.
But he didn’t move again.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t give Ivan anything.
The hours crawled. The wind rustled dry leaves against the window. A car passed sometime around 4 a.m. The moon shifted position across the wall, replaced slowly by the gentle blue of early dawn.
Till never closed his eyes.
And when the sun finally began to reach into his room, soft and slow, he let it wash over his face.
Still silent. Still breathing.
And Ivan? Gone. But Till didn’t check.
He just pulled the blanket over his shoulder, eyes burning from a night without sleep, and let the morning settle. Thanking Anakt that it’s Friday.
It didn’t happen just once.
It happened again. And again.
Weeks passed, then months—and still, Till did nothing.
Every few nights, Ivan returned. He never heard the door. Never caught movement. Never saw the moment Ivan arrived. But Till knew. The same way you know when someone’s standing behind you before they speak.
Till never looked too long.
He never said a word.
He simply went on with his life inside that room, he played his guitar, did his homeworks, scrolled through his phone, watched videos on mute, or sat completely still for long stretches of time, pretending to be immersed in something else.
He gave nothing.
Because if Ivan was waiting for a reaction, he wouldn’t get it. Not after everything, not after Clem, not after being watched like a ghost, like Till is someone he owned.
Maybe he was vengeful, after all.
Years passed. Quietly, then all at once.
The shadows in his room stopped appearing, at least in the way they used to. Whether Ivan had grown tired of being ignored or had finally understood that silence was Till’s answer, the visits stopped.
And now, it was time for college.
Till stood by his mother’s room one morning, still in his pajamas, holding a folded brochure with charcoal-streaked fingers. It was from an art school two cities over, not a prestigious one, not the kind you bragged about, but it was real. It had a studio, a small dorm, and a town with a music café that let students play on Fridays. It wasn’t the same university Mizi was planning to attend, but it was nearby. And that was enough.
He’d been preparing quietly for months. Gathering his best pieces, fixing old sketches, recording songs that had once lived only in torn notebooks. Songs he used to write in the dark, when someone else was in the room.
“I’ll work part-time,” Till said. “I’ve already sent my portfolio. They replied. I just need to sort out housing. Maybe get a job nearby to cover the rest.”
Io didn’t speak right away. She stared at her son for a long moment, as if trying to fit the details of him together, the charcoal-smudged hands, the steadier voice, the eyes that mirrored hers. Like she was looking at both the child who used to hide behind her skirt and the young man now asking to leave.
He still looked like her boy. But something in his eyes had changed. He wasn’t just asking for permission, he was telling her who he was becoming.
Slowly, she touched his cheek, her fingers gentle and warm.
“Alright,” she said and pulled her hand back, blinking quickly.
“Go chase whatever you need to chase. Just... come back when it hurts. Okay?”
The night was humid. The breeze carried the scent of petrichor and leftover campus food, swirling gently around the dimly lit parking lot tucked behind the school dorms. A soft buzz came from the vending machines nearby, and light spilled from a few second-floor windows, emitting pale rectangles onto the pavement.
Till leaned against the rusting bike rack near the smoking spot, cigarette pinched loosely between his fingers. The glowing end trembled just slightly. He hadn’t had a chance to eat much after practice, and his hands were still twitching from the bass line they'd tried to tighten for over an hour.
“Still can’t believe you waited this long to join a band,” Hyuna— his senior bandmate, said beside him, exhaling smoke after a long drag. “We could’ve used you last year, you know.”
Till gave a faint smile, eyes following the glow of her ember. “Yeah, well… I was trying to be normal. Do solo stuff. Then I remembered that normal makes me miserable.”
Hyuna snorted. “Misery doesn’t sell tickets.”
He took a drag. The smoke stung a little, his lungs hadn’t adjusted yet. “Mizi kept telling me I’d never grow if I kept playing alone. Took me a while to listen.”
“Mizi? That girl from your high school?”
Till nodded.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“I wished,” Till chuckled, flicking ash onto the pavement. “She’s not interested in men though.”
Hyuna chortled and pointed at him accusingly. “You fell in love with a lesbian?!”
“Hey! It’s not something I can control!”
Hyuna wheezed with laughter, almost dropping her cigarette. “God, that’s so poetic.”
Till smirked, but his eyes softened. “Yeah, well. She saw parts of me that I didn't even know how to look at.”
Hyuna leaned against the pole beside him, her laughter dying into something quieter. “Was it tragic for you?”
He shrugged, exhaling slowly. “Maybe it was. Or maybe I just needed someone like her back then.”
They both went quiet for a moment, the silence only broken by a scooter passing in the distance and the crickets claiming the edges of the dorm lot.
“I just need a source,” Till murmured. “For writing. For staying in it. You know?”
Hyuna smirked without turning. “So cigarettes and repressed feelings, huh? Real artist shit.”
He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Just don’t tell my mom.”
“Io, right? The one who sends you those care packages?”
Till grinned softly, flicking the last of the ash. “Yeah. She still thinks I’m allergic to smoke. I always make sure I don’t reek whenever I get home.”
“How noble.”
He shrugged. “Can’t disappoint her. Not yet.”
Their conversation turned into petty complaints about amp feedback, a professor who didn’t believe in deadlines, the awful coffee from the third-floor vending machine that somehow made Hyuna crave it more.
They stayed like that until headlights cut across the lot.
A small, beat-up van pulled up beside the sidewalk, its engine roaring low. The driver’s side window rolled down with a creaky groan.
“Speak of the devil,” Hyuna flicked what was left of her cigarette to the ground and grind it under her heel.
Till smiled as the passenger door swung open and Isaac leaned across the front seat. He was wearing a worn leather jacket and the same ironic grin he always had after practice.
“You coming tonight, Till?” he asked. “We’ve got that café thing downtown. Not much, but tips are decent.”
Till shook his head, adjusting the strap of his guitar case where it rested at his side. “Not this time. Got midterms creeping up, and I already skipped too many study sessions.”
Isaac gave him a mock pout. “Shame. You’re the only one who makes us sound like we know what we’re doing.”
Hyuna slapped Isaac’s shoulder as she climbed into the van. “Let the sophomore breathe, genius. He’s allowed to be smart.”
Dewey gasped and peeked from the back of the van. “Till is smart?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
He stepped back from the curb as the van door slid shut, waving lazily as it rolled off into the night. The music gig would last until midnight, maybe longer. He usually joined when they needed an extra set or when the rent was tight, but tonight, he chose peace.
Till lingered in the parking lot a bit longer, the concrete still warm beneath his shoes, the breeze now cooler against his neck. He lit another cigarette, exhaling smoke into the air. He found comfort in moments like this, when he could exist quietly on the edges of the world without completely stepping out of it.
He glanced around the parking lot, taking in the usual things. The scooters, the vending machines, the flickering light.
That’s when he noticed it.
A car and a plate he didn’t recognize sat at the far end of the lot, slightly angled in his direction as if on purpose. No headlights. Dead engines. Just an unmoving figure in the driver’s seat. Watching.
Till stiffened, the cigarette between his fingers forgotten for a moment.
Fuck.
Before Till could fully register the danger screaming in his chest, he dropped the cigarette without thought, letting it burn out on the pavement as he roughly slung his guitar bag over his shoulder. His movements were clumsy and rushed, almost panicked as he turned and headed straight for the dorm entrance.
Then he heard it. The sharp click of a car door opening behind him.
He didn’t wait.
He bolted.
His shoes slammed against the floor. Patches of some uneven ground throwing off his balance. The strap of his guitar bag bounces wildly on his shoulder, threatening to slip, but he didn’t dare stop to fix it.
The bright hallway lights hit his eyes like a slap, too harsh after the dark. He paused only for a second, chest heaving, the sweat on his back sticking his shirt to his spine. His steps echoed as he hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Till didn’t stop until he finally reached his floor, he didn’t look around. He went straight to his door, keys shaking in his grip as he forced them into the lock.
He stepped inside, slammed it shut, and turned the lock again.
Then the deadbolt. Only then did he breathe.
He stayed there, facing the door, hand still resting on the knob like it might turn on its own. His eyes dropped to the narrow strip of light under the doorframe and waited, waited to see if a shadow would pass through.
A faint shadow passed. Barely there. Like someone had walked by, or maybe just stood a few steps away. He blinked, unsure if he imagined it.
But it came again. Slow, steady, and darker this time. It moved like someone approaching, blocking more of the light with each second until the space under the door dimmed completely.
Till didn’t move. His back straightened, and he pressed his lips together to keep from making a sound.
The footsteps stopped right outside his door and stood still. Not moving. Not knocking.
Till’s heart was pounding so hard he swore it echoed in the room. His eyes didn’t blink. Couldn’t.
He waited.
Seconds stretched, long and heavy, like time itself was holding its breath with him. Every part of him was tense, his legs stiff, barely holding him up. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe too loud.
And just as his throat tightened from holding in every sound, there was movement. A soft step. And then another. Fading.
The shadow pulled back, letting the light return, little by little, until only the familiar glow of the hallway remained.
Till stayed unmoving for a few more seconds, just to be sure. Then finally, he blinked.
The hallway was quiet again, but the silence didn’t comfort him this time. Not when he knew someone had been there. Not when he has an idea who it was.
He lay in bed with his eyes open, watching the door. He didn’t sleep that night.
Not really.
Just like that one night he noticed that disturbing boy inside his closet.