There are no sirens in Nawin's memory.Just the sound of arguing.Of things breaking.
And then—nothing.
He grew up in a house where love was something that came with bruises.Where apologies meant less than silence.Where his mother would say:
"He only hits when he's stressed, Nawin. He loves us.""Don't cry. Be quiet. Don't make him angrier."
So he learned to disappear.To be quiet enough that pain would pass through him like a ghost.To be small, still, invisible.
That's what kept him safe.
When he was 17, he finally ran.
Not with noise. Not with rage.Just with a plastic bag full of clothes and a pair of trembling hands.
"Don't come back," his mother whispered that night.But the way she said it sounded like:"You're not worth coming home to."
He never did.
The trauma didn't scream. It settled.In his skin.In the way he flinched when doors shut too loudly.In how he could go days without speaking, and not notice.
He never trusted anyone. Not really.Because deep down, he believed love = danger.That letting someone in was the same as handing them a weapon.
But then…
Than moved in next door.
Than was gentle.Not in a fake, performative way—but in a way that felt like exhaustion.
Like someone trying to be good again.
And for the first time, Nawin saw someone who wasn't trying to fix him—But someone who needed fixing too.
That made Than safe.And terrifying.
Because Nawin couldn't tell the difference between real love… and the need to be needed.
Nawin sits in his childhood bedroom, years ago.The lights are off. The house is quiet.He's hiding under a desk, headphones in, music too loud.On his phone is a chat with a stranger he never met in real life—Someone who said:"If you ever leave, I'll wait for you. Even if I don't know your face."
The username?
@phantom_sun
And we realize—It was Than.
All those years ago.
They were always circling each other.Even before the windows.