The moon hung low, a silver coin barely lighting the crumbling dock where Callum and Ren sat, their legs dangling over the edge, shoes just barely brushing the cold, inky water below.

Neither spoke for a long time. The world felt heavier at night, like darkness made the things they never dared to say just a little easier to voice. Or maybe it made them harder to keep in.

Callum broke first.

“I’m scared of being forgotten,” he muttered, his voice rough and small. “Like… one day I’ll be gone and nobody’ll remember I was ever here. Like I’ll just… stop mattering.”

Ren didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. He only nodded, eyes fixed on the rippling water.

“I get that,” Ren whispered. “I—I’m scared that everything I do means nothing. That no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be enough for anyone. Not my mom. Not my friends. Not… not you.”

Callum looked at him then, really looked.

“I never knew you felt like that.”

“You never asked.”

Silence again, except now it felt different. Warmer. Softer. A tiny spark of understanding in the cold.

“I remember you,” Callum promised quietly. “Even if no one else does one day. I’ll remember.”

Ren’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “And you’ve always been enough for me.”

The darkness stayed, but it didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

“I guess some things are easier to say in the dark,” Callum stared up into the night sky.