Angel stares at the night-blooming jasmines, his gaze distant, untouchable. My eyes trace the lines of his profile, pale and perfect in the dim light. Why is he always like this? So silent. So lost in thoughts he'll never share. A beautiful bird, but one who has forgotten the very concept of sky beyond the gilded bars of his cage.
I can't bear the quiet. It feels heavy, like a wall between us.
"Angel."
He turns, those deep golden eyes focusing on me. "Yes, Young Master?"
"What are you thinking about?"
He stares, surprised by the directness of the question. I wait, patient, letting the night air fill the space his answer should occupy.
Finally, he speaks, his voice soft, hesitant. "Nothing. I'm just…" He stops. It's the halt of someone who has run out of words, or perhaps never learned how to shape the ones inside him into sound.
