"Why aren't you happy?"
Hendrix's question cut through the night air.
It was simple. Too simple. Yet it lodged itself inside Florian's chest like a blade.
His breath caught. His fingers twitched against his arms, clutching himself tighter.
He knew—he knew—Hendrix was asking him as if he were the original Florian. Hendrix thought he was speaking to that Florian, the one from the past. The one he had loved.
And yet…
Florian didn't fully believe that.
The way Hendrix asked—it wasn't soft, but it wasn't harsh either. It carried no pity, no edge of accusation.
It was just… real.
Steady.
It sounded less like he was speaking to a ghost of someone else and more like he was asking him.
As Florian.
As himself.
It unsettled him. Confused him. But it also made something stir in his chest that he didn't want to acknowledge.
'Why does it feel like he's really asking me? Not him… me…'
Florian wet his lips, his voice trembling as he found himself whispering, "Hendrix, do you—"
