Aaron stared at his phone like it might bite him.
It lay on his bed, screen dark, innocent, unbearingly loud in its silence. He'd carried it around the house all morning — from the kitchen to the hallway, back to his room — never quite putting it down, never quite picking it up either. His claws hovered over the glass without touching it, as if contact alone might trigger something irreversible.
Outside, the day went on. Sunlight crept through the gap in the curtains. A bird landed on the fence and left again. Somewhere down the street, someone laughed.
Normal things. Dangerous things.
Aaron sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, tail curled loosely around his ankle like it was afraid to wander too far. His glow was low today — not gone, never gone — but muted, held tight beneath his skin the way he'd learned to do when fear outweighed instinct.
David had checked on him twice already. Not hovering. Just… present. A mug of tea left on the counter. A quiet I'll be in the living room offered like a truce.
Aaron appreciated it.
He still felt alone.
The phone vibrated suddenly in his hand — not a notification, just the subtle shift as his grip tightened too much. He sucked in a breath and unlocked it before he could lose his nerve.
Kane. Nathan. The group chat hadn't changed.
He hadn't messaged them since before everything broke open. Before the videos. Before the world learned too much and not nearly enough.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
What do you say when you're still alive, but only technically?
He typed.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted that too.
Finally, with his jaw clenched and his ears flattened tight against his head, he typed a single word.
hey
He stared at it for a long moment, heart hammering like he'd just sprinted miles instead of moving his thumbs an inch.
Then — before he could think better of it — he hit send.
The message appeared. Small. Pathetic. Tremendous.
His glow flickered once, sharp and bright, then dimmed again as he dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned him.
He didn't breathe until it buzzed.
Then again.
Then again.
He picked it up with shaking hands.
Kane: dude
Nathan: oh thank god
Kane: we've been worried sick, man
Nathan: are you okay??
The words blurred together, concern stacking on concern, each message tightening something in Aaron's chest that had already been pulled too thin.
He swallowed and typed back slowly.
Aaron: yeah
Aaron: sorry
Aaron: got sick, kinda went off-grid
It wasn't a lie. Not really.
Fear was an illness. Panic was a fever. He just didn't think they'd understand the symptoms.
There was a pause. Longer this time.
Then:
Kane: sick sick? or "i don't wanna talk about it" sick
Nathan: kane
Nathan: but also yeah
Nathan: you scared us, man
Aaron pressed his lips together, claws tapping softly against the phone.
Aaron: sick sick
Aaron: wasn't fun
That seemed to satisfy them — at least enough to keep the questions gentle.
For a moment, the conversation drifted into familiar territory. Kane complaining about uni deadlines. Nathan mentioning a busted controller. Little, ordinary details that felt like a different life brushing against the edges of this one.
Aaron found himself breathing again.
Then Kane typed:
Kane: btw
Kane: i stopped by your place yesterday
Aaron froze.
His glow spiked instinctively, a sharp pulse of blue racing down his arm before he forced it back, muscles locking as if stillness could erase the memory.
Kane: threw pebbles at your window like a total idiot
Kane: didn't get an answer tho
Kane: figured you were asleep or dead lol
The joke landed wrong. Kane realized it instantly.
Kane: bad joke
Kane: sorry
Aaron's throat felt tight.
He stared at the screen, at the words stopped by your place, and all he could see was the curtain shifting. The sliver of light. The almost.
He typed.
Paused.
Deleted.
Typed again, slower this time.
Aaron: yeah
Aaron: I wasn't home
The lie slid into place easily. Too easily.
Nathan: ah
Nathan: okay that makes sense
Nathan: i was about to say, your doorbell works last i checked
Aaron let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
They didn't press.
That might've been the worst part.
Kane: hey uh
Kane: wanna video call later?
Kane: just to see your face, make sure you're actually alive
Aaron's stomach dropped.
Video meant light. Angles. Reflections. It meant losing control of what they saw — of how they saw him.
His tail tightened around his ankle without him meaning it to.
Aaron: can't
Aaron: sorry
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Nathan: everything okay?
Aaron swallowed.
Aaron: yeah
Aaron: just not up for video
Aaron: voice call's fine tho
Another pause.
This one stretched longer, heavy with unspoken questions.
Then:
Kane: yeah okay
Kane: voice is good
Kane: bare minimum friendship requirements met 😤
Aaron huffed a weak, involuntary breath that might've been a laugh.
Bare minimum.
The call rang a moment later.
Aaron hesitated — just a second — then accepted.
"Hey," Kane said, voice crackling slightly through the speaker. "There he is."
"Hey," Aaron replied.
Nathan chimed in almost immediately. "Dude. You sound like crap."
"Thanks," Aaron muttered. "Missed you too."
It wasn't smooth. It wasn't easy.
There were pauses where no one quite knew what to say. Moments where conversation overlapped and then fell apart again. Kane talked too much. Nathan went quiet at the wrong times. Someone asked how sick Aaron had been and then clearly regretted asking.
But no one pushed.
No one demanded proof.
No one asked him to turn on a camera.
Aaron leaned back against his pillows, phone warm in his hand, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His glow stayed low — steady, managed — like a candle protected from a draft.
For a few minutes, it almost felt normal.
Almost.
When the call finally ended, Aaron stayed where he was, phone still pressed to his palm long after the screen went dark.
His chest ached — not with panic this time, but with something duller. Heavier.
He hadn't told them the truth.
But he hadn't vanished either.
The realization settled quietly inside him, fragile but real.
Bare minimum.
Aaron stayed where he was for a long time.
The phone eventually cooled in his hand, the warmth fading until it was just glass and metal again, an object instead of a lifeline. He set it down on the mattress beside him with care, like it might shatter if he moved too fast.
The room felt different now.
Not safer. Not lighter. Just… altered. As if a door somewhere had been cracked open, letting in a thin draft he couldn't quite block out again.
His glow pulsed faintly along his forearm, then steadied. He focused on that rhythm—slow, even—using it the way he'd learned to use breathing exercises. Proof that he was still in control. Mostly.
A soft knock came at the door.
Not urgent. Not insistent.
Aaron's ears twitched. He considered pretending he hadn't heard it, the old instinct rising automatically—but something in him resisted. Not courage. Just inertia tipped the other way.
"Yeah?" he called, voice rough.
The door opened just enough for David to lean in. He didn't step inside right away. He never did anymore—not without checking first.
"You sounded like you were on a call," David said. Neutral. Observant.
Aaron nodded. "Friends."
David's eyebrows lifted slightly. Not in surprise—more in acknowledgement. Like he was carefully filing the information away somewhere important.
"That go okay?" he asked.
Aaron hesitated. The honest answer was complicated. So he chose the closest simple one.
"Yeah," he said. Then, after a beat, "I think so."
David nodded once. "Good."
He lingered in the doorway a moment longer, then added, "Lunch'll be ready in a bit. No rush."
"Okay."
David closed the door softly behind him.
Aaron let his head fall back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily overhead. The blades blurred together, a constant motion that didn't demand anything from him. He liked that.
His thoughts drifted back to the call—the sound of Kane's voice, the way Nathan had gone quiet when things got awkward, the normalcy threaded through all of it like something stubborn and alive.
They hadn't seen him.
They hadn't run.
They hadn't known.
The relief sat uneasily beside the fear, neither one winning.
Aaron rolled onto his side, tail uncurling at last, stretching out across the bed in a loose, tired line. He flexed his claws once, then relaxed them, grounding himself in the small, physical sensations of being here. Now.
Bare minimum, he reminded himself.
That was all he'd promised. All he could manage.
And yet—somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the careful walls he'd rebuilt piece by piece—something fragile had survived the day.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But connection.
And connection would have to do for now.