Chapter Text
The problem doesn’t start with a fight.
It starts with the way Colby doesn’t laugh at Sam’s joke in the car.
They’re three hours into the drive, windows cracked for fresh air, some random playlist humming through the speakers. The sky is washed-out and gray, the kind that makes headlights glow too brightly even in the afternoon.
Sam makes a sarcastic comment about the gas station hot dog he ate threatening to spiritually detach from his body.
Usually, Colby would snort. Or say something equally gross. Or at least roll his eyes with the hint of a smile.
This time, Sam gets nothing.
Colby’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. His jaw works, tension, not annoyance, and he keeps his eyes forward like the road is the only thing that exists.
Sam watches him for a beat too long.
“You good?” he asks lightly.
“Yeah,” Colby replies, the word clipped short. “Just tired.”
Sam nods slowly, sinking back into the seat. But the energy in the car shifts, subtle like a pressure drop in a storm. The playlist feels too loud, then too quiet, then annoying no matter what volume it’s set at.
They don’t talk much for the rest of the drive.
Sam tells himself not to read into it.
He tells himself Colby is just tired.
But he feels something set off-kilter, and once his brain latches onto an imbalance, it refuses to let go.
The parking lot is half-empty, lights buzzing overhead like dying bees. The building itself is older than either of them, stucco peeling in spots, with the faint smell of stale cigarettes leaking from somewhere unseen.
Colby grabs his bag from the trunk without a word. Sam mirrors him, hitching his backpack onto his shoulder. Colby’s pace is slightly too fast, just enough to keep distance without making it obvious.
Usually, they’d walk shoulder-to-shoulder, bumping into each other every few steps.
The absence of that small, stupid comfort hits harder than Sam wants to admit.
Inside the room, the air smells faintly of cleaning solution and older carpet. There are two beds, thin blankets neatly tucked. Colby sets his tripod down with a muted thud, avoiding Sam’s gaze like it’s a spotlight.
Sam watches him for long enough that it becomes awkward.
Finally, he forces a small laugh. “Dude, you’re acting like we’re in trouble or something.”
Colby pauses, shoulders stiffening. “Didn’t mean to.”
“That’s not—” Sam starts, then stops. “I… just meant you’re quiet.”
Colby nods once. “Yeah. Just… long day.”
There it is again. Long day. A vague phrase that tries to explain everything and explains nothing.
Sam sits on his bed and drags a hand over his face, pushing his hair back. His throat feels thick.
Something’s wrong. He knows Colby better than he knows himself; he can read him from a mile away. And this? This is something.
“Hey,” Sam says gently. “Seriously. If something’s up—”
“I said I’m fine,” Colby answers, still not harsh, but edged. Tired in a way that doesn’t match his words.
Sam swallows the sting.
He nods once, pretending it doesn’t feel like a door shutting in his face.
Dinner is takeout from the closest place, the sort of diner that still uses foam containers and gives enough fries for three people. Normally, they’d eat sprawled across both beds, stealing from each other’s fries, watching something stupid on the TV.
Tonight, they eat in silence.
Colby sits at the edge of his bed, hunched over his food, not even pretending to scroll TikTok between bites. His eyes stay lowered the whole time.
Sam picks at his burger without appetite, sneaking glances every few moments.
He tries again.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Colby freezes, then exhales slowly. “Sam. I’m fine. Just tired. Let it go, okay?”
He says it softly, no heat, but it still breaks something in Sam’s chest.
Sam nods, forcing a smile he doesn’t feel. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
But his fries grow cold while the knot in his chest pulls tighter.
The room goes dark after they shut off the lights. The only glow is from the alarm clock on the nightstand between their beds. Colby has his back to the lamp, blankets pulled high around his shoulders.
Sam lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.
He can’t sleep. His thoughts keep spiraling, looping the same question over and over:
What did I do?
He grabs his phone and lets the screen light up the room faintly. The brightness burns his eyes.
Twitter. Close.
Instagram. Close.
YouTube. Nothing helps.
He opens his Notes app. A blank page. A place he stores the thoughts he can’t send.
He types:
Did I mess up somehow?
He stares at the sentence before deleting it.
He tries again:
Talk to me. Please.
Delete.
His chest hurts. He presses the heel of his hand against it.
He types a third time:
I miss you and you’re right here.
He freezes.
He hadn’t meant that.
Or maybe he had.
Maybe it slipped out because it was true.
His thumb hovers over the delete button… but he lets the sentence stay, screen dimming on its own.
He flips the phone face-down, closes his eyes, and fails to sleep for hours.
Sam wakes to the sound of typing.
Colby is already up, dressed, hoodie on, laptop open on the small table near the window. His headphones are in; his back is curved slightly like he’s on a deadline.
Sam sits up slowly. “Morning.”
Colby lifts a hand in a brief wave without turning around. “Morning.”
No smile. No eye contact.
Sam’s stomach sinks.
He clears his throat. “Uh… we still hitting the basement shots today?”
“Yeah,” Colby says, tapping something on the keyboard. “Weather’s good.”
Sam waits for the usual stuff—the banter, the schedule breakdown, the excited commentary about potential evidence.
Nothing.
Colby doesn’t look up.
It shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
Sam stands, stretches, tries to act normal. “Cool. I’m gonna shower.”
“Okay.”
That’s it.
In the bathroom, Sam closes the door and leans against it, breath shaky.
He pulls out his phone. Opens Notes.
The same sentence waits for him:
I miss you and you’re right here.
He stares at it until his eyes burn and adds underneath, with a trembling thumb:
I don’t know how to fix something when I don’t even know what broke.
He forces himself to close the app the second he hears Colby move in the other room.
The morning air is crisp, cold enough that Sam’s breath fogs faintly when they load the car. Colby moves quickly, efficiently, barely glancing at Sam as they pack up.
Sam keeps opening his mouth to say something, then closing it again.
Words feel heavy. Wrong. Like anything he says will break something further.
Halfway to the filming location, Sam finally forces himself to speak.
“You sure you’re not sick or something?”
Colby exhales through his nose. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“Okay, but—”
“You don’t have to keep checking on me.”
Sam flinches.
Colby’s shoulders drop a little, guilt flickering across his face before he masks it. “I just… I don’t want you worrying. There’s nothing to worry about.”
But everything in his posture says otherwise.
Sam looks out the window, jaw tight. “Hard not to worry when you’ve barely looked at me in two days.”
Colby goes still.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.
Sam regrets saying it instantly. He wants to take it back, shove it into the corner of the car and pretend it never escaped his mouth.
But it hangs there.
And Colby doesn’t answer.
Not for the rest of the drive.
The building is abandoned—large, stone walls cracked by years and weather, windows covered in grime. The inside smells of dust and stale air.
Normally, Sam would crack jokes. He’d tease Colby about who has to go into the creepy basement first. He’d break the tension with laughter.
But today he doesn’t have the energy.
Colby sets up silently, movements sharp. When Sam hands him the IR camera, their fingers brush.
Colby pulls back fast.
Too fast.
And Sam feels something in him shatter so quietly he wonders if he imagined it.
Filming is mechanical. Hollow. Their banter is strained, Colby’s smile never quite reaching his eyes, Sam’s jokes falling flat.
When they take a break, Sam sits on the old wooden stairs, elbows on his knees, staring at the dust motes floating through the air.
Colby approaches, hesitates, stands a few feet away.
“You okay?” he asks carefully.
Sam doesn’t look at him. “Why are you asking now?”
Colby shifts. “Just… making sure.”
“Feels like the only thing you’ve said to me in two days is that you’re tired.”
Colby exhales, looking away. “Sam…”
“What did I do?” Sam blurts out before he can stop himself. “Just tell me. Whatever I did, I’ll fix it.”
Colby’s head snaps toward him, eyes wide with something Sam can’t decipher.
“It’s not you,” Colby says finally. Soft. Too soft.
Sam’s breath catches. “Then what is it?”
Colby opens his mouth… then closes it.
“I can’t right now,” he says quietly.
And he walks away before Sam can respond.
It’s late when they return. The moon hangs low, pale and tired-looking. Sam feels the same.
Inside the room, Colby sits on his bed, scrolling his phone. His expression is closed off, careful, controlled.
Sam’s voice comes out rough. “Can we talk?”
Colby tenses. “Sam—”
“No excuses. Just… tell me what’s going on.”
Colby looks torn, eyes darting to the wall, then the floor, then anywhere but Sam. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on his knees.
“I’m just dealing with stuff,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to dump it on you.”
“You’re not dumping anything on me,” Sam insists. “You shutting me out is worse.”
Colby’s breath stutters.
“I don’t mean to shut you out.”
“But you are.”
Silence.
Heavy, aching silence.
Colby finally whispers, “I know.”
Sam steps closer. Not too close, just enough to show he’s there. “Please. Let me in. You don’t have to tell me everything… but tell me something.”
Colby hesitates. His throat works. His eyes shine faintly, like he’s holding back too much.
But then he shakes his head. “I can’t. Not yet.”
Something in Sam collapses inward.
He nods slowly. “Okay. Then… just know I’m here.”
Colby nods once. Grateful. Guilty. Hurting.
Sam crawls into his bed.
Colby turns off the lamp.
The room goes dark.
But the distance between them stays painfully bright.
Sam can’t sleep...
Again.
He flips onto his side, staring at Colby’s dim shape across the room. He can hear Colby’s breathing—quiet, steady, pretending-to-be-asleep steady.
Sam whispers into the dark, only to himself:
“I miss you.”
He grabs his phone again. His Notes app.
He adds to the bottom of the page:
If you told me what you needed, I’d give it. Anything.
Just don’t shut me out like I don’t matter.
He stares at the words, heart in his throat.
He locks the phone, sets it down.
And spends the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, wishing he knew how to reach someone who’s only a few feet away yet feels impossibly distant.
End of Chapter 1