He hides it so well.
I know he knows I can feel it. I can see it in his eyes, just as he can see the concern in mine. Every breath he takes and releases is like a little burst of pain, a small burden to continue living. I can feel it like pins and needles crawling under my skin. I'm not one to pry into places where I'm not wanted, but with him the feeling is so prominent that it's hard for an emapth to miss.
He's seen so much destruction. Too much. And somehow, he keeps on smiling. I can't understand it. Without my powers, I probably would never have known that he hurt so much. I have to physically fight the urge to reach out, to touch him, and that's not exactly common for me. But I can't let myself do it, because that would be bridging the gap between empathy from a distance and invasion of privacy. He knows I know. But he knows I can't, or won't, acknowledge it until he does. This is our silent agreement.
There are times when the pain is so sharp, I feel like I'm being sliced open, but I'll look over at him and just see him laughing. It scares me, how easily he covers it up. Like one day, maybe he'll just lose it entirely. I've always felt it from him, like someone small crying out from underneath a million colorful blankets. But recently it's been growing stronger every time I draw near him. Perhaps it's because we've become closer. Sometimes he'll come to me, on the brink of telling me everything. But every time he tries, something stops him and he laugh it off, saying it was nothing important, just a stupid joke I wouldn't like.
He knows I know. Maybe one day he'll be able to tell me.