"I was just trying to be what you wanted."

He turns to him and asks, "Then why weren't you."

The room is cold, as if the vent had leaked her frequent despair; she had always hummed her tune of melancholic tranquility in this room. But, it is quiet now.

Shifting his jaw, Orion chastises, "You have never held my hand or came over when I need you to. I needed you a lot. And, when we're around others, you act like I'm a friend. You act like I don't love you, and you don't love me."

Orion shifts his gaze while speaking, to the patterned floor, to the gridded walls, even the wood-framed painting that depicts an isolated cottage and the picture of a far younger, innocent man. Though he struggled to look at Vale, he finally did. It was direct. A sharpened stare. One in spite of lonely, loveless nights and the cries that promised to ease them.

Vale did not reciprocate this look. He was distant and void of any intimate plead for a genuine conversation, but he appeared distraught, as if there was a feeling he did not want.