The diner is almost empty—the type of place where the coffee is always lukewarm and the waitress won't ask questions. They sit in a booth towards the back, shadows long across the worn laminate table. Rain taps out a soft, steady beat outside—a quiet drumline for what's coming next.
Pong stirs his tea idly, gazing at Noah. "You haven't slept, have you?"
Noah smiles, dry and broken a little. "Does it show?"
"You resemble a ghost tormented by another ghost."
Noah crumples into the seat, palms against his forehead. "I don't know what I thought. It's popping up like that. Believing words could repair what I destroyed with silence."
Pong doesn't push him. Just waits.
Noah blows out, quivering. "I love him, Pong. I still do. I never did stop. Even when I fled. Especially then. And perhaps I should have remained. Tried harder. Perhaps if I had—"
"He could have hated you anyway," Pong says softly. "Fear is not always kind.
