The sound was not loud, not a burst of laughter meant for company or conversation. It was soft, low, and threaded with something intimate—something that reached him in a way no words ever could. In the darkness, her laugh seemed closer, as if it circled around him, binding him in a net he could not escape.
Each note of that laughter carried weight, teasing him, daring him to ask what she found so amusing. But he couldn’t. His throat tightened, his breath caught, and he sat there, paralyzed by something so simple yet so devastating. It was not the laugh itself that shook him—it was the way it seemed to know him, to unravel him.
When it finally faded into silence, the absence felt unbearable. He wanted it back, wanted to hear it again, even if it meant losing control of himself entirely. In that stillness, with her shadow flickering against the dark, he realized the truth: he was no longer afraid of her laughter—he was afraid of how much he needed it.