Pixzyn

“I’m not talking,” Moon muttered.

Carmine smiled—not forced, not mocking. Just… there. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m only here because I lost a bet.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched.

Moon clicked his tongue. “This is stupid.”

“Probably,” Carmine said lightly. “Still here though.”

Moon shot him a glare. No reaction. No pushback. No pressure.

That was worse.

Minutes passed. The clock ticked louder than it should’ve. Moon shifted, tapping his foot, then stopping, then starting again.

“…You’re not even gonna ask anything?”

“I can,” Carmine said. “But you don’t seem like someone who responds well to being pushed.”

Moon scoffed. “…You don’t know me.”

“No,” Carmine agreed. “But I’d like to.”

That… annoyed him more than it should’ve.

Moon leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “There’s nothing to know.”

Another pause.

“…You’re scared,” Carmine said gently.

Moon’s eyes snapped back to him. “No, I’m not.”

Carmine didn’t argue. “Okay.”

That calm acceptance cracked something small.

Moon looked away.

“…I’ve been forgetting things.”

There it was.

It slipped out before he could stop it.

Carmine didn’t react dramatically. He just nodded. “What kind of things?”

“…Small stuff. Then bigger stuff.” Moon’s voice tightened. “Conversations. Promises. Things I said I wouldn’t do again.”

His hands clenched.

“And… sometimes I don’t recognize myself. Not like—physically.” He let out a shaky breath. “I mean… I feel like him again.”

Carmine stayed quiet.

That silence pulled more out.

“I worked so hard,” Moon continued, voice rough now. “To fix it. To stop being—” He swallowed. “—that.”

His eyes flickered with something ugly. Guilt. Shame.

“I hurt him.”

He didn’t say Sun’s name. He didn’t need to.

“I said things I can’t take back. I did things—” His voice cracked. “And I told myself I’d never be that person again.”

Carmine leaned forward slightly, still gentle. “And now?”

Moon laughed. It was hollow. “Now I don’t trust my own head.”

His breathing started to shake.

“What if I forget again?” he whispered. “What if I go back to that? What if one day I just—” His hands trembled. “—look at him and I don’t remember why I promised to be better?”

Carmine didn’t interrupt.

That made it worse.

“What if I hurt him again?” Moon’s voice broke. “What if I don’t even realize it until it’s too late?”

Tears welled up, and he immediately tried to wipe them away, angry at himself.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

“No,” Carmine said softly.

Moon shook his head violently. “I’m supposed to have control. I had control. That’s the whole point. I changed. I was better.”

His chest hitched.

“And now it’s slipping.”

Silence again—but this time it wasn’t empty. It held him there.

“I’m scared,” Moon admitted, voice barely audible. “I’m scared I’m just pretending to be better. That this—” he gestured to himself, shaking “—is who I actually am.”

Carmine finally spoke.

“The fact that you’re afraid of becoming that person again,” he said, calm and steady, “means you’re not that person anymore.”

Moon shook his head. “That doesn’t stop it.”

“No,” Carmine agreed. “But it means you’ll fight it.”

Moon let out a broken breath.

“I don’t want to hurt him again.”

“I know.”

“I can’t—” his voice cracked hard now “—I can’t be the reason Sun’s afraid of me again.”

The tears came fully this time, and he couldn’t stop them.

Carmine didn’t move to fix it. Didn’t rush him. Just stayed.

Let him fall apart without trying to glue him back together too quickly.

After a while, Carmine spoke again, softer than before.

“Then we make sure you’re not fighting this alone.”

Moon didn’t respond.

But he didn’t leave either.

The circus had always smelled like sugar, sweat, and sawdust.

Every evening, under the striped canopy, laughter echoed like music. Lights shimmered, drums rolled, and the audience leaned forward in their seats, waiting for wonder. And among all the performers, there were two who worked in perfect harmony—We weren’t the stars of the show, not exactly. We were riggers, stagehands, sometimes clowns when needed—men who held the magic together from behind the curtains. We joked while hauling ropes, shared cheap meals, and laughed at things no one else found funny.

For a long time, everything was fine. Until it wasn’t.

It began quietly. He stopped laughing at jokes. Then stopped talking altogether. His movements grew sharper, impatient. Where there had once been rhythm, there was now tension—like a rope pulled too tight, ready to snap.

I would mutter sometimes, “you ever feel like something’s… wrong?”

My Sun would shrug it off. Everyone in the circus had their bad days, But his bad days didn’t end. They grew. His eyes, once warm and alive, became distant—then restless—then something else entirely. He began snapping at the others, but especially me. Small mistakes turned into accusations. Silence turned into hostility.

One night, after a performance, under the dim glow of a single backstage lamp, it broke.

He was already yelling the moment he stormed into the room. I don’t quite remember why he was yelling about.

The argument escalated too fast—words overlapping, voices rising, years of friendship collapsing into something unrecognizable. And then, suddenly—

Sun lunged.

I barely had time to react. The glint of metal flashed in his hand. Instinct took over—fear, raw and immediate. We struggled, stumbling into crates, knocking over props. The circus outside still roared with applause, unaware.

I begged him to stop.

But he didn’t stop.

So I did what I had to.

It was quick.

Too quick.

A single motion. A desperate push. The knife changed hands. And then—

Silence.

Sun fell.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

I stood there, trembling, staring at what I had done. The sounds of the circus seeped back in slowly—distant applause, muffled music—but they felt unreal, like echoes from another life.

My hands were shaking.

Red.

Not just red—carmine.

Deep, vivid, unbearable.

It stained my fingers, soaked into my sleeves, splattered across my face. Carmine—too bright, too alive, too present. It clung to me, refused to be ignored. It wasn’t just color—it was memory, it was guilt, it was the moment frozen in time.

I raised a trembling hand to his cheek.

The carmine smeared.

I stared at it, his breath uneven, eyes wide and hollow.

“I… I didn’t…”

The circus continued outside.

Lights. Laughter. Applause.

Inside, beneath the dim lamp, I stood alone—my face painted not by performance, but by something far more permanent.

Carmine.