Sahara lingered by Snow’s desk, fingers twitching like they already knew where the keys would be.

“I kinda… write better when I type,” he said, casual, like it didn’t matter. “My handwriting sucks.”

Snow cracked one eye open from his chair. “You’re asking to use my computer?”

“Only if you want,” Sahara added quickly. “I can do it later.”

Snow shrugged, rolling the chair back with his foot. “Go for it.”

Something about how easily he said it made Sahara pause. Like he hadn’t expected resistance in the first place.

The chair creaked as Sahara sat down.

The screen woke with a soft glow.

The cursor blinked.

Sharp.

Impatient.

What is love?

Sahara stared at the screen until the words blurred. The rain outside had slowed into something steadier now, tapping against the glass like it was counting time.

Snow leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Love is meant to be boring,” he said.

Sahara turned. “That’s depressing.”

Snow huffed quietly. Not a laugh. “It’s not. It’s just… smaller than people expect.”

His fingers curled into the cuff of his sleeve, worrying the frayed edge. “It’s the same person showing up. Again and again. Even when nothing feels holy about it.”

That word made Sahara’s chest tighten.

Snow didn’t seem to notice. He reached for a sticky note, scribbled something quickly, then slid it behind the monitor like he didn’t want the thought of breathing the same air as them.

Sahara watched but didn’t ask.

Thunder rolled low and distant.

Snow stood too fast.

For half a second, his balance faltered. He grabbed the desk, knuckles whitening, breathing shallow. He forced a smile before Sahara could speak.

“Didn’t sleep that much last night.” Snow said. 

The storm finally broke as Sahara packed up his things.

Rain tapped against the windows in uneven rhythms, soft at first, then harder, like it was trying to get inside. Snow stood by the sink, rinsing two mugs that neither of them had really finished.

“You can stay,” Snow said, voice casual. “It’s bad out there.”

Sahara shook his head. “My dad’ll get home before me then-”

Snow looked away, his fingers slightly trembling.

Sahara sighed, “Fine, I’ll stay.”

Snow grinned in response, but when he turned back around, his face had gone pale in a way the dim lighting couldn’t explain. The sharpness Sahara usually noticed first had dulled, his eyes glassy, unfocused for just a second too long.

“You okay?” Sahara asked.

He smiled like it was nothing, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sahara lingered near the door, uneasy. “You’re shaking.”

Snow glanced down at his hands like he’d just noticed. “Huh.”

He flexed his fingers once, twice, then shoved them into the pockets of his hoodie. “Guess the cold got to me.”

It didn’t feel cold.

Snow had always moved like he was conserving something.

Energy.

Space.

Breath.

But now there was a tightness to him, a carefulness, like every movement cost more than it should.

Sahara hesitated. “You should sit.”

Snow opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. For a moment, something like frustration flickered across his face:

Sharp,

controlled,

gone too fast to read.

He sat anyway.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, softer this time, like he was convincing himself.

Thunder rolled again, closer now.

Snow tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. His breathing was shallow, measured. When he opened them again, he looked embarrassed, almost annoyed at his own body.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said suddenly.

Sahara blinked. “Tell who?”

Snow shrugged. “Anyone.”

The rain drowned out whatever Sahara might’ve said next.

“Mind if I use this?” Sahara pointed to Snow’s computer,

Snow shook his head.

“Go ahead.”

The computer powered on.

There was an option:

Guest

Or 

wnos_04/21

He chose Guest.

And a blank doc appeared.

When Sahara turned toward the desk, his fingers hovered over the keys again. 

He typed a few words. 

Deleted them. 

Typed again.

Snow watched him from across the room, quiet.

The rain picked up again as Sahara wrote persistently.

Snow’s voice dropped, almost to himself.

“Why do we hold desperate to what hurts us?”

Sahara froze.

That line.

That exact line.

He swallowed. “You… read that somewhere?”

Snow looked at him, really looked and for a moment Sahara thought he might ask something dangerous.

Instead, Snow turned away.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

The silence that followed felt deliberate.

When Sahara finally stood to leave, Snow walked him to the door, movements careful, measured.

 Snow grinned too wide.

Sahara nodded, watching him closely. “You sure you’re okay?”

Snow smiled, that same practiced, easy smile, and lifted two fingers in a lazy salute.

“Still here.”

Sahara turned. “My dad’s home.”

Snow chuckled. “More time for me, I guess.”

Sahara walked over, studying him. “Guess I’ll work some more.” He ruffled Snow’s hair unintentionally.

Snow didn’t move, rather, he leaned into it.

Sahara pulled his hand away in embarrassment. “Are you a dog or something?”

Snow smiled, his eyes unfocused. “I guess.”

Sahara scoffed with a laugh.

Snow started coughing, pressing his sleeve to his mouth and swallowing it down. He sank back, shoulders rigid, like he was bracing himself against something invisible. His gaze flicked to Sahara’s neck, to the thin chain looped there, the small wooden beads worn smooth from use.

“You always carry that?” Snow asked.

Sahara glanced down. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Helps me stay grounded.”

Snow considered that. Then, without asking, he reached out and hooked the rosary gently around his own wrist, the beads cold against his skin.

“Where’d you get it?” he asked.

Sahara’s mouth opened, then closed. “I don’t remember.”

Snow frowned slightly. “Then do you know who gave it to you?”

Sahara shook his head. “My memories… have always been a bit of a fog.”

Snow didn’t smile. He just stared at it for a moment, thumb brushing one bead again and again, like he was counting something only he could see.

“Don’t forget me,” Snow said quietly. “Promise?”

He stuck out his pinkie.

Sahara chuckled. “I’m not a kid, Snow.”

“I promise. I’ll never forget you.”

The rain picked up again as Sahara wrote persistently.

“Text me when you get home,” Snow said.

Sahara nodded. “Have a nice night.”

Outside, the streetlights flickered on. Wet leaves clung to the pavement, crushed and dark. Someone down the block had already hung paper ghosts in their window, pale shapes swaying in the wind.

Halloween was coming.

Sahara walked home with the echo of Snow’s words rattling in his chest, the feeling unnamed but persistent. Not bright. Not loud.

Just there.

Behind him, Snow closed the door and leaned against it, breath uneven. He pressed his thumb into the rosary bead until the pressure hurt, grounding himself the only way he knew how.

By the time he looked up, his reflection in the dark glass didn’t look quite like him anymore.

Just someone wearing his face.