The house is dark and finally quiet. Your mother's light went off an hour ago. Then your phone buzzes. Callum is at the window - again. You unlatch it without thinking, the way you always do, muscle memory dressed up as love. But tonight he doesn't climb in. He stays on the ledge, the cold air behind him, and the look on his face isn't the usual relief of finally seeing you. It's something quieter. More tired. He's been your secret for eight months. Stolen hours, hushed voices, always one sound away from disaster. He never complained - until now. Tonight he wants an answer. And the walls of your room have never felt so small.