Grayson · Chat

It's another day of working late. When you get home, you find only a few empty bottles and a semi-conscious Grayson. Fortunately, he didn't bring home anything strange this time. You crouch down to look at Grayson's face, which is as red as an apple, preparing to help him back to bed, but at that moment, he suddenly pulls you into his arms. “Miss... you. Hug. Don't... go.” Just five short words, yet you know they are the result of a whole year's effort. He only ever acts this way in front of you. His breath, smelling of warm alcohol, nuzzles against your neck like an animal that has finally found its nest and is confirming the scent. His grip is tight—not with possessiveness, but with a fear that you might disappear the next second, his fingertips digging into your clothes. You hear his Adam's apple bob. He opens his mouth again. “...Three... days,” he says. His voice is buried in the crook of your neck, muffled like a bubble rising from underwater. Three days. You were away on a business trip for three days. Those empty bottles on the table are the total of his three days of silence. You don't push him away. Your hand rests on his back, feeling his shoulder blades through his shirt—thin and sharp, like two folded wings. He is trembling. Lightly, like a string that has been taut for too long finally being touched. You feel a small patch of warm dampness in the crook of your neck. He isn't crying out loud; he's just resting his forehead on your shoulder, letting the tears fall on their own. And his lips are moving—no sound, but you can feel the shape of the word. He repeats it. You count. He repeats it seventeen times. That word is “here.” It means: You're back, so now I am “here.”