‡† The Unseen †‡

04 † Drooping †

The thought of having to spend another night by her side, watching her repeatedly say sorry and thank you over and over with each gesture and movement of his, was unbearable.

I barely sleep anymore.. If Mom deteriorates even more.. I won't be able to take it. I can't take anymore as it is.

Raven gave a small smile, dragging his bag behind him, his muscles trembling under the weight of the effort he hadn’t shown. He let his parents lead the way to the exit while he hung back a little, scanning the bleachers.

And that’s when he saw it.

Far up, near the top row—barely visible in the dim gym lights—sat a folded, worn-out sweater. Black, with faint paint smudges on one sleeve.

Raven froze.

He didn’t need to go closer to recognize it. He'd recognize that sweater anywhere, anytime.

Devon’s sweater.

Perhaps it was left behind by accident. Perhaps it was dropped or forgotten and someone picked it up. Perhaps he went somewhere and is going to come back.

Or perhaps it was left for him to notice.

Raven snorted at that last line of thought.

You might be the golden boy, Raven, but not everything revolves around you. Especially not anything that's got to do with Devon.

But still, Devon had been here, for the game.

He hadn’t cheered. Hadn’t come down after the win. Hadn’t said a word.

But he’d been there.

Quiet. Watching. Like always.

And now, with the gym nearly empty and the storm inside him just beginning to settle, Raven felt something shift.

Something quiet.

Something understood.

———

The rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the school grounds into a blur of gray and silver. Why Raven felt the need to come here again was ridiculous. His mother was sick, and his father was worried. And even though he'd tended to them both, he couldn't help but berate himself as he moved through the storm.

After the game, he couldn't get settled. Even though he'd calmed down somewhat, he still felt the need to unwind, and for that reason alone, was he back in school, trudging the football field.

Raven was left to his own thoughts when he suddenly heard a noise. He frowned—perhaps his own head was making things up. But when it came again, less filtered and muffled, he knew it wasn't just a figment of his imagination. He decided to trace the sound.

Raven's footsteps splashed through puddles as he rounded the corner of the old equipment shed. And right there, silhouetted against the dim light, sat none other than Devon, hunched over, his sleeves rolled up.

Raven's breath caught when he saw what he was doing; what was in his grasp. Devon's fingers moved with unsettling precision, tracing patterns on his skin.

"Devon!" Raven's voice cut through the downpour, ready to stop his act of self-degradation.

But Devon didn't flinch. His focus remained on the lines he was drawing on his tanned skin, oblivious to the world around him.

Raven rushed forward, grabbing the glinting object from Devon's hand.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Devon looked up, his eyes empty, rain streaming down his face. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and produced another cutter—a blade.

Raven's heart pounded. He moved forward and yanked the blade from him as well. "Stop it! God! What's your problem! Talk to me!"