THE ART OF DISAPPEARING

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THE ART OF DISAPPEARING (ONE-SHOT)

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Eight days. One hundred and ninety-two hours exactly without a single story, a scheduled tweet, or a casual photo to keep the algorithm satisfied. On the internet, eight days of absolute silence were an eternity—enough to unleash conspiracy theories, endless threads, and alarms going off everywhere.
But within the four walls of the apartment, time was measured in an entirely different way.
On the dining table, two phones lay face down on a wooden coaster, notifications silenced and screens black. The golden light of the sunset streamed lazily through the balcony, tinting the wooden floor and the half-finished glasses on the table. There were no cameras, no stylists fixing their hair, no constant pressure to smile at the right angle before the timer ran out.
Smart sat on the carpeted floor, his back resting against the base of the sofa, idly running his fingers over the strings of an unplugged electric guitar. He wasn't playing a complete melody; just a few soft, scattered chords that filled the space without breaking the stillness.
From the open kitchen, Boom approached at an unhurried pace, carrying two glasses of cold water with lemon slices. He was wearing a white T-shirt two sizes too big and his hair was tousled, not a trace of styling product in sight. He dropped down beside Smart, stretching his legs across the carpet and resting his head directly on Smart's shoulder, making him stop strumming.
“Do you think they've already assumed we moved to another dimension?” Boom asked sleepily, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Smart let out a low laugh that vibrated right where Boom's forehead rested.
“They probably think we got lost on an island with no signal,” Smart replied, setting the guitar aside so he could have both hands free. He slipped an arm around Boom's shoulders, pulling him closer with effortless familiarity. “Or that we simply forgot how to unlock a screen.”
“Not that far from the truth,” Boom murmured, closing his eyes as he felt Smart's fingers gently caress the back of his neck with the slow familiarity they only shared when no one was watching. “It's been months since I last breathed like this. Without thinking about what to say, how to stand, or what they're going to read into every little gesture.”
Smart didn't answer right away. He simply rested his cheek against the crown of Boom's head, breathing in that clean, everyday scent that social media could never capture. Outside that room, the noise was deafening: expectations, schedules, flashes, and strangers dissecting their every move. But in there, inside the little pause they had decided to give themselves, they didn't owe anyone an explanation.
“We'll have to turn them back on tomorrow,” Smart whispered, almost reluctantly, making no attempt to move.
Boom turned slightly, lifting his gaze to meet Smart's dark eyes just inches away. There was absolute calm in his expression, a complicity sealed by years of knowing each other's silences.
“Tomorrow,” Boom conceded, raising one hand to brush the edge of Smart's jaw, making him hold his gaze. “But we still have a few hours left today. And this time is ours alone.”
Smart smiled for real, that small, private smile that never appeared in official photos, and sealed the pact by leaning forward just enough to place a soft, unhurried kiss on Boom's forehead, while the world outside kept turning without them.