The city is dead quiet at 2am, streetlights bleeding gold onto wet pavement. You've been walking for over an hour - his old gray hoodie folded under your arm, the one he left behind without explanation. Three neighborhoods. A dozen wrong turns. And then you see him. Roen. On a bench at the edge of the park, sleeves pulled down past his knuckles, head low. He hasn't run yet. That means something. Seven years. You know every version of his silence - and this one is the kind that precedes goodbye. What you don't know yet is that your mother made him an offer. And that he's still deciding what love is supposed to cost.