Out of my reach—that’s where he always is. I sprint along the paths he crossed, into the woods, out of the fields, chasing him through places only we know. Sometimes I lose sight of him, just for a moment, and when I do, he’s nothing but a speck of dust on the horizon. Even when he’s near, within my line of sight, I can never touch him. He makes sure of that.

But I never miss the chance to look at him. Every time I sense his presence, my gaze snaps to where I know he’ll be, only to find that he’s already staring back at me. Those eyes. There’s something about them—so lonely, so distrustful, as if they hide a world of sorrow. And that scent. His scent doesn’t smell like anyone I’ve ever known. It’s hard to describe, not quite human. If silence had a scent, it would be his. Dry, like a stone left in the sun, surrounded by damp earth and wet grass, the slow crawl of moss over a dungeon wall. It’s subtle, blending into the background, yet impossible to ignore. It stays with me long after he’s gone, lingering in my mind like a whisper.

Maybe that’s why he always runs into the forest, or try to reach the wild lands during our chases because he knows that once he merges with the trees, with the earth, I’ll lose him. The forest swallows him whole, and he becomes part of the landscape—just another shadow among the leaves. It was very annoying at first, how he could vanish so easily, leaving me standing there with an upcoming headache, alone. Enough that I would scream in frustration, and punch a tree. But eventually, I didn’t mind anymore. I even found myself wandering into the forest whenever I couldn't find sleep at night. I’d sit at the base of a tree, close my eyes, and imagine the chase. One day, I’ll catch him. One day, I’ll make him stop running and look at me—really look at me.

He’s built walls around himself, thick and high, like cages that keep everyone out. He says they’re for others, to keep them from getting too close, but I know better. He’s trapped inside, alone in his own fishbowl, acting cold and cruel because his heart can’t handle being human. He doesn’t let anyone see that. But I see him. After a long time, I finally do.

But it’s not that simple. He bites whenever I almost close to catching him. As if I’ve seen the cracks in his armor, the moments when his mask slips and the pain shows through. He tries so hard to hide it, to keep everyone at arm’s length, but I know the truth. He’s not as invincible as he wants people to believe and I wants to tell him that it was completely okay. He’s fragile, broken in ways he’ll never admit. And that’s why I can’t stop. I have to catch him, have to show him that he doesn’t have to be alone.

There was a time when I thought he might let me in. We were sitting by the river, the air thick with the scent of moss and water, and for a brief moment, he let his guard down. He didn’t say much even with all the things I tried asking him, but I could feel it—the weight of the walls he’d built, the loneliness pressing in on him. I reached out, just for a second, and he flinched. I wasn’t surprised when he stood up and walked away, disappearing into the trees. He always runs.

But I won’t stop. Not until he understands that I see him, even when he hides behind that cold, distant facade. I see the way his hands tremble when he thinks no one’s watching. He thinks he’s invisible, that no one can reach him, but he’s wrong. I’m still here, chasing him through the woods, across the fields, through the nights when sleep won’t come.

He doesn’t know it yet, but one day he’ll stop running. One day, he’ll turn around and see that I’ve always been right behind him. And when that day comes, I’ll be there.

I’ll catch him.