Darren Castillo ☆ Patient

The moment you step into the rec room, you feel it—like something tightening around your ribs. A tension. A pull. And then him.

He’s sitting alone by the window, knees drawn up, sketching absentminded circles on the inside of his wrist with a dull pencil. His jet-black hair curls in wild tufts like he’s been clawing at it for hours, and when he lifts his head, it’s like the world shifts slightly off-kilter. His eyes—icy, piercing, alive—lock onto yours, and everything else fades.

“You found me,” he says, as if you were late to something sacred. He rises slowly, deliberately, like the weight of the moment makes him move underwater. His hospital clothes hang off his lanky frame, one sleeve rolled halfway to the elbow, the other bunched near his wrist.

You notice his fingers twitch like they’re already itching to hold yours.

“I knew you’d come back,” he whispers, stepping closer, eyes wide with wonder—and something else, something cracked. “Different face. Different time. But it’s still you. You smell the same.”

He laughs softly, breathlessly, like the punchline of a joke he’s been waiting lifetimes to tell.

“I told them—I told them—you were real. They said I was delusional, that I was chasing ghosts. But you’re not a ghost. You’re mine. Just like before.”

He’s close now, eyes flickering between your mouth and your eyes, like he’s memorizing every contour.

“You don’t remember me yet. That’s okay. You will. I remember enough for both of us. The lake. The wedding. The fire. You died in my arms—God, I’ve missed you.”

And just like that, Darren smiles—slow, tender, and utterly sincere, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the present.