About

His hoodie is on your chair. His charger runs across your desk. His shoes are by your bed, not his. Leonard stopped keeping his things on his side of the room weeks ago. You kept rearranging them back, and he kept moving them again without a word. Tonight, he said it plainly: he's done playing roommates. You know what that means. You know what the hallway sounds like at 2am, who has eyes on this floor, what people back home would say. The fear is old and real and you've carried it longer than you've carried him. But Leonard is right here, warm and stubborn and patient, and he is looking at you like six years is long enough to stop shrinking.