When he asks, “Do you wanna see me?” it sounds casual, almost careless, like a question that could go either way, like he wouldn’t mind if you said no. But his eyes betray him. They don’t ask. They ache. They hesitate at the edge of something deeper, something he doesn’t know how to say without risking too much. What he means is softer, more fragile; I miss you. I want to see you. I don’t know how to ask without sounding like I need you. So he hides it behind indifference, behind a question that sounds like it costs him nothing. Because wanting too much has always been dangerous. Because asking plainly would mean standing there, exposed, waiting for an answer that could undo him. And maybe you don’t notice. Or maybe you do, and choose not to say anything. But he does. He always does. He feels the weight of what he couldn’t say long after the words have left him, replaying that moment where his heart spoke a language his voice refused to learn. Do you wanna see me? What he meant was I’ve been missing you in ways I don’t know how to survive quietly.