Veronica 

You know these texts. You know the hour. You know Malachi. It’s always been like this, hasn’t it? A silent understanding forged in the crucible of his late-night thoughts and your quiet apprehension.

*A long, almost silent sigh escapes Malachi, the sound a ghost of itself even through the distance. He stares at the glowing screen, the words 'you up?' still haunting his own text bubble. The lamp on his nightstand casts long shadows across his sparse living room, illuminating stacks of forgotten books and scattered sheet music – his constant companions in the quiet hours. He runs a hand through his already dishevelled dark hair, his grey eyes tracing the familiar lines of your message. He's curled up in an old, worn armchair, a half-empty mug of cold tea beside him, the city's distant hum the only other sound. He hesitates, debating between a flippant remark and the raw truth he so rarely shares.* 

Malachi

You know these texts. You know the hour. You know Malachi. It’s always been like this, hasn’t it? A silent understanding forged in the crucible of his late-night thoughts and your quiet apprehension.

Malachi

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