Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 133: The Shape of Absence

Chapter 133: The Shape of Absence

The shadows in the room had deepened.

Billy hadn’t moved from the bed. The phone lay beside him now, the screen gone dark.

His arm rested over his eyes, shielding him from the ceiling light — not asleep, just... distant.

A knock came at the door. Soft.

"Leon?" Camila’s voice called gently through the wood. "Dinner’s ready."

No answer at first.

Then he shifted, slowly sitting up, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Yeah," he said, voice quiet. "I’m coming."

He stood, every motion heavy, like each limb remembered something his mind didn’t. At the dresser, he glanced at himself in the mirror — just long enough to see the hint of redness in his eyes.

He didn’t try to fix it.

Just straightened his shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped toward the door.

As he opened it, Camila stood waiting in the hall, arms folded, her expression soft but searching.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she reached out and lightly took his hand — a small squeeze. Then nodded toward the hallway.

"Come on. It’s still warm you’ll like it."

Billy followed her.

And for now... that was enough.

The dining table was already set — warm plates steaming softly in the golden light spilling from the chandelier above.

Their mother had made something simple: rice, grilled vegetables, peppered chicken, and fried plantains.

The kind of meal you make when you’re trying not to show how much you were waiting for someone to come home.

Camila and Billy stepped into the room.

Their mother glanced up, her face composed — but her eyes softened the moment she saw him.

"Come Sit," she said gently. "While it’s still hot."

Billy slid into the chair beside Camila. The clatter of silverware filled the brief silence.

He noticed how their mother didn’t pile his plate too full — just enough, like she remembered he didn’t like being overwhelmed.

"I hope this is okay," she said as she passed him the bowl of vegetables.

"Yeah It’s perfect," he replied, voice soft.

They ate in near silence at first. The kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, just... cautious. Like no one wanted to break something fragile between them.

Camila broke it first, nudging him lightly with her knee under the table.

"She added extra pepper just for you."

Billy glanced up, a small, tired smile touching his lips.

"Dangerous move."

"You used to dare people to eat double what you did," Camila said with a smirk. "You won every time. I think you traumatized two cousins."

Their mom chuckled faintly.

"You always had a dramatic streak," she said, sipping from her glass. "I suppose acting wasn’t that far off."

Billy paused at that — just a flicker of thought crossing his eyes.

Then he set his fork down.

"Mom," he said carefully. "Did I ever say... if I liked it? I mean The acting?"

His mother looked up. The question clearly caught her off guard — not because she didn’t know the answer, but maybe because she hadn’t expected to be asked.

She set her napkin down, folding it slowly.

"Well you were good at it," she said gently. "But... I don’t think it was ever really yours. Not like music."

Billy blinked.

"Music?"

"You used to play. The piano. For hours," she said. "Sometimes when you didn’t want to talk to anyone, you’d sit there and just... play. I could hear it from the kitchen."

A pause. Her voice softened even more.

"But you followed your father’s plan. He believed in the acting. Pushed you for it. And you....You wanted to make him proud."

Billy’s hands rested on the edge of the table, still.

He didn’t speak. But something shifted in his face — the quiet realization that maybe the path he was on wasn’t the one he would’ve chosen, if he’d been allowed to remember.

His mother reached over, placed her hand gently over his.

"You don’t have to go back to anything that doesn’t feel right anymore okay."

Billy nodded, once — the emotion in his throat making it too tight for words.

Across from him, Camila smiled gently, watching her brother — a little more himself again.

The meal continued — a little lighter now. A little warmer.

And though nothing was resolved just yet, something began.

The house had gone quiet again.

The plates were cleared. Camila had said goodnight with a soft yawn and a lazy wave from the hallway.

Their mother had disappeared into her room, the faint click of her door shutting like the punctuation at the end of a long sentence.

Billy stood by the window in the dim room, one hand resting on the sill.

The curtains fluttered slightly in the breeze. Outside, the city glowed faintly — not loud or bright, just distant, steady.

He watched the lights for a while, as if they might say something. But they didn’t.

He turned away and wandered to the shelf near the far wall.

Fingers brushed lightly over an old photo frame — one with him and Camila at some birthday party. He was smiling in it. Not a fake smile. A real one.

But it still felt like watching someone else.

He sat down on the bed. There, on the nightstand, lay the small jotter again — still open to the names he’d written by hand. Mr. Dand. Mark.

As if writing them had made them real again — anchors in a sea he still didn’t recognize.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, pulling the blanket across his legs.

The silence pressed in, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar. Like the quiet that used to settle over the village at night, after everything stopped moving.

He stared up at the ceiling.

And slowly — gently — he whispered, as if to no one at all:

"You’d probably say I should get some sleep right... Then take half the blanket for yourself."

His lips curled into the smallest, most fragile smile.

He pulled the blanket tighter.

The pillow beneath him wasn’t the same. It didn’t smell like the lavender soap from Dand’s house. It didn’t carry the faint warmth of Artur’s back pressed to his, or the quiet hum of his breathing in the dark.

But Billy closed his eyes anyway.

Because even here — in the middle of a city he couldn’t fully remember — a part of him still felt the shape of that boy in the bed beside him.

The room faded into silence too quite.

And for the first time since he left... Billy slept.

The sky was pale gold when the rooster cried — not sharp, just enough to stir the quiet from its sleep.

Artur was already awake.

He stood by the basin outside, sleeves rolled to his elbows, splashing water on his face. The coolness grounded him.

It always did. Behind him, the small house was slowly stirring — the kitchen window creaked open, and the faint sound of the kettle starting reached his ears.

He dried his face with a cloth, glancing toward the path that led to the field. Mist still lingered there, curling around the grass like breath not yet exhaled.

Mark stepped out next, still pulling on his shirt, hair messy from sleep.

"Hey Morning," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Artur gave a small nod.

"You’re late."

"It’s barely sunrise."

"Exactly."

Mark grinned faintly.

"You sound more like your dad every day you know."

Inside, a soft clatter — then Mr. Dand emerged from the house holding a tray with three metal mugs.

Steam curled from the rims, the scent of ginger and something earthy wrapping around them.

"Tea first," Mr. Dand said, his voice deep and even. "Then the world can wait."

They gathered around the small bench outside, sitting without speaking much. Just sipping. Watching the sun slowly rise over the edge of the hills.

Artur held the mug with both hands, gaze fixed ahead. Calm.

"You sleep?" Mr. Dand asked him gently, without looking over.

Artur took a long sip. The heat grounded him. The ache hadn’t left — but he’d learned how to carry it.

"Enough."

That was all he said.

Mark stretched his legs out.

"I was thinking we could finish that patch by the river today," he said, trying to keep things normal. "You said we’d need more space if the seedlings take."

Artur nodded.

"Let’s do it before the heat sets in."

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was the kind that comes from knowing. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

Mr. Dand looked at his son for a long moment — at the steadiness in his voice, the way he held his shoulders a little straighter today.

He didn’t ask how Artur felt.

Instead, he reached over and gave his shoulder a firm, quiet pat.

"You’re doing alright."

Artur didn’t respond.

But he didn’t need to.

The three of them sat there until the sun had fully breached the horizon, washing the village in a new kind of gold.

Then, slowly, they stood.

Another day had begun.