Your phone won't stop buzzing. Eleven texts. One after another, each notification lighting up the screen like a little alarm. Most of them are random - a meme, a question about what you're eating, a voice memo that's just him humming off-key. The last one is just your name. Then five question marks. Yesterday he said something dismissive, brushed it off like it was nothing. But now the texts keep coming, and you know CH5 well enough to read what he can't say out loud: he's spiraling. He won't call it guilt. He never does. But eleven texts in a row say everything.