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hxlxnaaa · 10 hours ago

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𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬

you spent your whole life loving him, and he never said a word. a retelling of your story—of the way he made you feel without meaning to, of all the things you held in, waiting for something that was never coming. and now it’s too late to ask what any of it meant.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: tied to iris by the goo goo dolls, first part of a 2 part series, non-mc reader, ever so slight canon divergence to make the story work, MC x Zayne mentions, fic spans over the course of a few years, childhood friends to something almost, angst, hurt/no comfort, character death (it’s caleb exploding), unresolved tension, mentions of grief, not all that beta read we die like caleb

★ 𝐰𝐜: 17k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: this literally took me ages. life was throwing hurdle after hurdle at me while i was trying to write this and finally its done. im tossing this out there into the tumblr algorithm abyss and praying it does well because this literally took me almost 2 months. this is going to be a 2 parter (if it’s well received) so if you want your happy ending come back soon!! i hope!! enjoy!!

. . . .

And I’d give up forever to touch you,

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

. . . .

It started as something simple—childish, really.

He’d tug on your pigtails and jab you with pencils, and you’d shriek that he had cooties.

You lived next door, your bedroom window facing his. At night, he’d flash a flashlight through the glass just to annoy you, grinning and sticking his tongue out as you yanked the curtains shut.

But the moment anyone besides him picked on you at the playground, he was there in a heartbeat—stick in hand, chest puffed out, baring his teeth (even if a few were missing). He was the toughest kid on the block, and he always had your back.

Perfect, adorable, insufferable little Caleb.

He lived with this girl—and you quite liked her. She’d play dolls with you, dress up, and mix muddy potions in the backyard. She sat next to Caleb in class and always whined at him to knock it off when he threw things at the back of your head.

She always had the biggest crush on this older boy who lived in the neighborhood. He’d sculpt little animals out of snow, even in the dead of summer, and she’d squeal with giddy delight, cheeks flushed pink as she sprawled out on your bedroom floor. She’d grab your dolls and make them kiss, pretending it was the two of them.

Yet, even though you knew she liked someone else, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that twisted in your stomach whenever Caleb trailed after her like a lost puppy. When he’d groan about having to be your husband when playing house instead of hers. When he’d puff out his chest and play the hero on the playground—but not for you.

It felt like someone had taken your favorite toy and started playing with it right in front of you.

Perfect, adorable, angelic little MC.

It wasn’t until you got a little older that you could name the feeling.

You felt it behind all the tight lipped smiles you wore when they showed off their matching apple shaped hair clips, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Jealousy was a green eyed thing that settled in your chest like rot, quiet at first, but patient. It made its home there, digging in deep—something you’d carry for years without even realizing.

You did what you could to hold yourself together through the mess of puberty, piecing yourself around every scrap of attention Caleb bothered to throw your way. You wore orange ribbons in your hair because it was his favorite color. Purple, on days when you were desperate—just to match his eyes.

There was some kind of bitter peace in knowing MC didn’t feel the same. She brushed Caleb off like he was nothing more than an annoying older brother, and it stung less knowing he was in the same boat as you; chasing someone who wasn’t chasing him back.

She was blind to the way Caleb looked at her. Oblivious to the obvious change in his voice when he said her name, to the way he followed her around like a lost cause. She soaked up his attention without even realizing it—like some sort of Caleb absorbing sponge.

And God, you hated her for that. Hated how easily she sucked up what you’d spend your nights awake and aching for. You would’ve killed to be in her place—just once. To be the one he looked at like that. But she didn’t even want it. Didn’t even care. She tossed his affection aside like it was nothing.

Still, she was your best friend. That didn’t change. You smiled when you were supposed to. Stayed loyal. Bit your tongue until it bled. Reminded yourself she didn’t want him—that you stood a chance.

. . . .

MC and Caleb were usually late to school, trailing behind like always—yet Caleb was on time, catching up to you on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” He caught your shoulder, flashing you that grin with his signature sparkling eyes.

Damn, that smile. Even back when he was just a gap toothed kid, it could’ve lit up the whole sky. Caleb was like that—like the sun. All warmth and gravity, the center of everything.

Well, of your everything.

And those eyes—that shade of violet you thought was your favorite color never failed to always pull you in like a magnet. There was something about them, soft and deep, like the galaxy at twilight.

They were the first thing you noticed, the part of him you found yourself staring at when you thought no one was watching.

Every time his eyes met yours, it felt like that purple shimmer was reaching out—tangling itself into your heart with a vice-like grip, something you couldn’t explain but couldn’t let go of either.

In their depths, you felt drawn back again and again, hearing the silent language only an iris can speak.

The sudden attention from him startled you. “Hi.”

Caleb dropped his hand from your shoulder and nodded toward the road ahead. “Mind if I walk with you?” His voice was friendly—like it hadn’t been years since you’d felt this close. Now that you were teenagers, young adults in high school, Caleb would toss you a smile in the halls—maybe make small talk when MC was around.

But you hadn’t always needed her in the middle. The two of you also used to be best friends.

Back then, he’d invite you over after school, dragging you to his room to show off his toy plane collection. He’d flip through his worn out books with greasy fingers, rattling off facts and flight names. You’d listen to him talk for hours about how one day he was going to be a pilot—how he’d fly faster than sound, higher than anyone.

Now, if you were lucky, on some quiet nights you’d catch a glimpse of him through the window—sitting at his desk with tousled and wild hair, dressed in worn pajamas and knees pulled up under his chin as he buried himself in homework.

Sometimes, when your movement caught his eye, he’d look up and give you that familiar, slow smile.

He’d wiggle his fingers in a shy wave, almost like a secret between the two of you. You’d respond with the smallest lift of one finger, careful not to break the quiet spell.

In those moments, you’d see him—not just the boy with the model planes lining the bookshelf behind him, but the Caleb who used to really see.. well… you.

The Caleb walking next to you felt familiar—like some old song you hadn’t heard in a while—but also strangely distant, like the boy you knew had somehow grown into someone else. Yet you weren’t sure you really recognized him.

He talked without pausing—about his classes, his friends, about how MC was sick and how frustrated he was that his Gran wouldn’t let him stay home to help her.

As you passed the the corner store, he nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Remember when we used to grab candy there after school?” he asked.

You didn’t even have to look. “Yeah. You’d always pick the weirdest flavors.”

“Weird?” he gasped like you’d slapped him. “Psh, no. More like daring. I had range.”

“You bought clam flavored gum.”

“And? I was young and full of hope.”

“You made me try it.”

He stretched and smiled, “You’re welcome.”

“It tasted like rubber bands.”

Caleb clicked his tongue. “Yeah, that’s what excitement tastes like. Unlike your go to strawberry laces. How bold of you—were the vanilla wafers out of stock?”

“At least my candy didn’t double as a chemical weapon.”

“It built character,” he said. “Your taste buds needed the challenge.”

You rolled your eyes. “You once spent seven dollars on something called ‘Mango Chili Sour Slime.’”

“And I’d do it again—for the experience.”

“You ate half of it, turned green, and declared yourself legally dead.”

He held up a finger. “Temporarily dead. I came back stronger.”

“You threw up behind the bus stop.”

“And rose like a phoenix.”

“You cried.”

“Phoenixes have emotions!”

You snorted, trying not to smile. “A phoenix who can’t handle spicy gelatin, and claims cilantro tastes like soap.”

“Because it does!” He said with genuine offense, pausing on the sidewalk with arms crossed.

“You survived chili goo, but a leaf ruins your day?”

“It’s not just a leaf. It kills your taste buds.”

“Right… Right… Or I propose again, maybe you’re just weird?”

“Maybe,” Caleb shrugged, “And yet, somehow, still the most well adjusted person you know.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by your footsteps continuing again on the sidewalk. Caleb looked over at the store again, the paint on the awning cracked and curling.

“Crazy how small it looks now,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied, “Or maybe we just got taller—wiser.”

“Speak for yourself, I peaked at thirteen.”

“You peaked the moment you bought clam gum.”

“But here you are, still walking next to me. Interesting.”

Rolling your eyes, you sighed. “It’s like a field study in poor life choices.”

“And you’re the control group?”

“I’m the exit strategy.”

He laughed again.

As you reached the school gates, he turned to you. “Hey, we’ve got a basketball game this weekend.”

He kicked at the ground, a little awkwardly, then added, “You should come, if you’re free.”

Your heart swelled—like an old dog finding love again after years. You nodded a little too quickly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah—yeah, I’ll be there.”

“You better be.”

Before you could say anything, he reached out and tugged gently at one of your pigtails—and for the first time in what felt like ages, you recognized the boy in front of you.

Caleb twirled one of the orange ribbons between his fingers. “I like your hair like this. The orange is pretty.”

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there pinching yourself.

That night, lying in the dark of your room, a sudden flash caught your eye—a beam of light slicing through the window. You sat up, heart quickening as the light blinked again. Drawn to the window, you crept over and peeked out.

There was Caleb, grinning like a kid, flashlight in hand, his laughter bright in the quiet night.

You pushed open your window.

“What are you doing?” you called out, voice curious.

He shrugged, flashing a cheeky grin as he opened his own window across the way, pretending to look innocent.

“I got this new flashlight,” he flipped the flashlight in his hand, “just testing if it works.”

Caleb aimed the beam at you again, winking.

And as you slid back under the covers, you found yourself wondering what had come over him.

Did that walk stir up memories—the way it had for you—awakening some old nostalgia buried within? Or maybe, you thought, he realized in some small way that he missed you.

. . . .

You tied those orange ribbons into your hair, dancing around your room to your favorite songs, giddy and light like your body couldn’t hold all the excitement. You spent hours picking out the perfect outfit—cute but casual enough that maybe he’d think you just woke up looking that way.

You practically floated out the door, humming under your breath as you made your way to school. The night sky was cloudless, a deep stretch of dark velvet scattered with stars. The winter air bit at your cheeks, crisp and cold enough to sting, but you barely felt it.

No—your heart was beating too fast and too warm, like it was carrying a fire inside you. One that spreads to your fingertips, your chest, your smile; every breath you took came out in clouds, but you didn’t shiver.

Not when the world felt this full. Not when something—hope, maybe? Was lighting you up like a firefly from the inside out.

When you got to school, the buzz of the gymnasium hit you with bright lights, sneakers squeaking on the court as people filed in, and laughter echoing in tight circles of friends.

You lingered near the entrance for a second too long, suddenly unsure of where to go or what to do with your hands. Everyone seemed to have someone.

And for a brief, unexpected moment—you kind of wished MC was with you.

She had gone on a date with her boyfriend, so she wasn’t going to be able to make it. Something Caleb had thrown a fit about, but you silently rejoiced.

Aw… Bummer! You had thought to yourself, bubbling and beaming with glee.

You made your way toward the bleachers, weaving through the crowd until you found a spot tucked away in the back corner. It was quiet, just far enough from everyone else, but close enough to see the court.

Any lingering nerves disappeared the second you spotted him. That familiar mess of brown hair stuck out even from the bleachers, and your eyes locked on him like they always did. He was on the court already, bouncing the ball lazily between his hands, talking with his teammates.

He glanced up at the bleachers, eyes scanning the rows.

And then he found you.

His face lit up with a grin, and he gave you that signature wave—fingers wiggling in their own little dance.

A quiet smile tugged at your lips, your cheeks growing warm.

You lifted a single finger in a returned wave, your own half of the silent, almost secret handshake the two of you had created—just yours, and just his.

Suddenly, you didn’t feel so alone in that crowd.

The buzzer sounded, and the game began. Caleb turned back to the court, falling into step with his teammates.

You settled deeper into your seat, hands clasped in your lap, eyes fixed on him.

Once or twice, you thought he glanced your way.

You told yourself that even though he was the star of the team—the school’s perfect, adored heartthrob—he had asked you to come tonight.

He had invited you.

He had thought of you.

But when the game ended and your team won, you lingered by the front of the school—hoping to catch him.

To say hello.

To tell him congratulations.

Maybe even walk home together.

You waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

But he never appeared.

Maybe he left with his team, caught up in the noise and celebration.

Maybe he slipped out the back, avoiding the crowd.

As you walked home alone, the cold air wrapped around you like a cruel reminder—you were still on the outside.

And the joy you’d carried all day began to fade, replaced by the familiar hurt of being forgotten.

When you got home, you stopped at your front doorstep, eyes catching the warm glow of light spilling from his living room window.

There he was—laughing with MC on the couch.

Your eyes began to burn. Did it even matter to him that you showed up? Or was your invitation nothing more than a convenient excuse—a way to make sure someone was there? Someone to fill the bleachers when she couldn’t.

You weren’t the reason he wanted you there—you were a placeholder.

The anger bubbled up, but underneath it was something much harsher—the sting of being invisible when all you wanted was to be seen.

As you closed your front door behind you, the silence in your house felt louder than the cheers at the game.

You lay awake, sleep slipping through your fingers as a heavy sadness pressed down on you—desperate to break free in tears, yet leaving you empty and unable to cry.

Hours dragged on as you lay there, staring at the ceiling, desperate for a way to make him see you. You had thought for years, since you knew what love was about changing everything—dyeing your hair, changing the way you talked, the way you walked—anything to be different, to be enough for him, what he wanted.

But if Caleb was Adam, she was Eve—the first, the original, the one he always went back to.

The one you could never replace.

A flicker of light broke through the dark, casting a small glow on your wall.

You didn’t move at first.

You sat there, full of rage and sorrow, still bitter from the feeling of being forgotten. You told yourself not to move.

But your body betrayed you.

Like something ancient pulled at your limbs, you found yourself crawling to the window. Not with hope, but with habit. As if your soul had already answered before your heart could protest.

Some might say you were possessed. And maybe you were.

Not by ghosts, but by something lonelier.

Possessed by love so one sided it hollowed you out. By that hunger to be seen.

There he was—sitting across the way, still in the soft spill of moonlight, and all you could see were his eyes.

Those eyes.

Violet and reflecting the pale glow of the night like glass. They shimmered under the dark sky, catching the light like polished amethysts—so bright it almost hurt to look. Almost beautiful enough to believe.

You didn’t move. Just stared.

No wave. No smile. Not this time—you waited for him to speak first, to do something.

Finally, he opened his window.

You followed. Opened yours. Let the silence stretch thin.

“Sorry for not saying hi after the game,” Caleb said, voice low. “I kind of had to run off afterwards.”

Run off to her, you thought.

Sorry? That was it? That was all he had to give?

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Bit down the words clawing their way up. Your mouth felt dry, your hands curled into fists on the sill.

“Right,” you said, quietly. “You were busy.”

He looked at you then, brows drawn like he was trying to read something on your face.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

You nodded once, not trusting yourself to say more.

Because the truth was, he didn’t have to go.

He chose to.

But yet, he hadn’t promised you anything. Not a meeting, not a moment after. Not even a goodbye. But still—you waited. You had hoped. So was it cruel of you to expect something? Anything? Or were you just naive?

He lingered at the window, fingers fiddling with the flashlight, eyes flickering with something that almost looked like regret.

“I didn’t mean to blow you off,” he tried to add. He sucked at trying to defend himself.

He let out a breath, eyes dropping for a second before meeting yours again. You stayed quiet, your heart twisting, but your face stayed still.

“I feel bad,” Caleb muttered. “I was thinking of hitting the mall tomorrow. Just to hang out. You should come with.”

He tried to smile, softly and casually, like this wasn’t a scrap of attention handed out too late.

“Walk around, get pretzels or something. Check out that record store you like?”

Your throat tightened.

Part of you wanted to shut the window. Part of you wanted to scream at him. But mostly;

You just wanted Caleb to look at you the way he looked at her.

You nodded.

Because even if it was a leftover moment, it was something. And with him, something always felt like more than nothing.

. . . .

You didn’t bother with the ribbons. Not today.

As you stepped outside, you braced yourself—half expecting to see MC by his side, like always. Maybe she’d decided to come last minute.

But there he was, alone—standing at the end of your walkway, hands in his pockets, watching your front door.

His eyes met yours instantly.

“No ribbons today?” You hated that he noticed.

You forced a shrug, eyes anywhere but his.

“I forgot them,” you lied.

The walk was quiet, tense in that way where every step felt louder than it should.

“You look tired,” Caleb nudged your shoulder lightly. “Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“S’okay. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

He didn’t say anything right away, before stopping suddenly. “Oh—wait. I have something for you.”

You turned just in time to see him dig into his coat pocket.

“Strawberry laces,” he said, holding them out to you with a sheepish grin.

You hated the way your heart jumped at the sight of them. You wanted to stay mad.

But why did he have to remember? Why did he have to think about you?

“The vanilla wafers were out of stock,” he added.

You took them, fingers tracing the wrapper as you turned them over slowly. Then you looked up at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

“How bold.”

As you went to tear open the bag, Caleb snatched it back, holding it just out of reach with that smug, teasing grin you both loved and hated.

“Nuh-uh,” he wagged a finger in your face. “No candy unless you stop being mad at me.”

You pouted. “That’s not how that works. Gifts aren’t conditional.”

“This one is,” Without missing a beat, he stuffed the bag behind his back dramatically.

“I could just stay mad and take them anyway.”

“You could try,” he teased, backing up a step. “But I’ve got longer legs. And I’m fast.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was that warmth bubbling under your skin now.

Stupid boy. Stupid eyes. Stupid candy.

You were still mad.

But it was getting harder to remember why.

“I’m sorry for leaving you high and dry after the game,” he seemed more sincere now.

“I invited you, and you were so sweet to take the time to come watch me play...” He trailed off, giving you that miserable, kicked puppy look—eyes wide, all violet and tragic.

Those damn eyes. You could never say no to them.

“Could you ever forgive me?”

You huffed. “Yeah. Fine, whatever. I forgive you.”

Stepping up to him, standing just inches away, you held your hand out.

“Now give me my candy.”

He raised a brow, smirking. “Nope. Say it better.”

You groaned, but your smile betrayed you.

“I forgive you, Caleb.”

That was enough for him. He grinned, tossed an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.

“Atta girl.”

He finally handed the candy back, but not before sneakily grabbing a few pieces for himself.

You smacked his hand, eyes narrowing. “Seriously? You make fun of my candy and then steal it?”

He popped one into his mouth, completely unfazed.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, hugging the bag protectively.

The air between you lightened, the tension dissolving with every shared glance and playful nudge.

He pointed out weird cracks in the sidewalk, made dumb jokes, and told you stories about kids on his basketball team. You teased, called him dramatic, and laughed harder than you meant to.

The mall was fun too. You bounced from store to store, trying on ridiculous hats and oversized sunglasses—laughing over belts with giant, rhinestone buckles neither of you would ever actually wear.

He dragged you into the model shop, eyes lighting up as he pointed out the different planes and jets with boyish excitement. “I’m gonna fly this one someday,” he said, tapping the glass with a proud little grin. You just smiled and nodded, because he'd said that about a dozen different models already.

Then it was your turn—you led him to the record store, your favorite little corner of the mall. You flipped through crates of vinyls, pulling out your favorites while he hovered behind you, pretending to scoff at some of your picks.

“Seriously? This?” he teased, holding up an album.

“You notoriously have zero taste,” you shot back, snatching it from him.

But when you looked away, you caught him out of the corner of your eye, phone in hand, quietly adding the artist to one of his playlists.

The two of you wandered through the mall, half finished pretzels in hand, when you suddenly stopped short in front of a jewelry store window.

Something in the display tugged at you—a necklace, delicate and simple, but impossibly beautiful.

Caleb kept walking a few steps before realizing you were no longer beside him.

He turned, eyebrows raised. “You see somethin?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stood there, eyes locked on the amethyst pendant that sat at the center of the display.

It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The gem shimmered in the light, a swirl of purples—some soft as lilac, others rich like wine.

It was his color.

The exact shade that lived in his irises.

“It’s so pretty…” you breathed, voice distant.

He stepped beside you, peering into the glass. “The necklace?”

But your gaze had already shifted—up, to him. To the very thing the gem reminded you of.

You were still staring, caught somewhere between memory and longing.

And when your eyes met his, glittering under the same fluorescent light, it was like looking at the stone again.

You tore your gaze away, pretending you hadn’t just compared a piece of jewelry to the boy beside you like you were twelve again and hopeless.

You took a bite of your pretzel, more for something to do than anything else, chewing to fill the silence, to distract from the way your hands were suddenly too aware of themselves.

Caleb stayed behind for a beat longer, still staring at the necklace—or maybe just thinking. So you started walking, hoping he’d follow and say nothing.

But, of course, he did.

“Hey,” he called, catching up and poking your cheek. “It was my turn to look at it.”

You smacked his hand away, trying to keep your face neutral. “You were taking too long.”

“What? I’m allowed to admire pretty things too.” He ruffled your hair.

You didn’t dare ask if he meant the necklace.

You didn’t dare hope he meant you.

“Wait!” Caleb came to an abrupt halt after walking aimlessly—and you turned to see him with this goofy, unexpected grin.

“Let’s go in here.”

“The craft store?” you asked, surprised. “Since when do you craft?”

He shook his head. “Just come on.”

Before you could say another word, he reached out and grabbed your hand and pulled you inside.

Your breath hitched, a rush of excitement blooming all the way down to your toes.

Oh my god, he just grabbed my hand.

Suddenly, the whole mall seemed brighter, the noise fading into the background as you let yourself be swept along, fingers tangled with his.

Caleb pulled you through the store like he had some grand plan, weaving through displays with a determination you didn’t expect.

“What are you even looking for—” you stumbled a little, trying to keep up, nearly tripping over your own feet.

He didn’t stop right away, only paused for a quick second to scan the store before spotting whatever it was he’d been hunting down.

“Found it,” he said with a proud grin, tugging you in that direction.

You blinked as he led you straight into the sewing section.

“The sewing aisle?” you looked around, confused. “Wait, do you sew now or something?”

He didn’t answer, just walked you—gently this time—over to the wall lined with ribbons.

Rows and rows of them. Every color. Every texture.

And it hit you a second too late.

You didn’t even have time to hide the way your stomach flipped.

He remembered.

Caleb finally let go of your hand as he stepped closer to the wall of ribbons, fingers flipping through the endless options.

He grabbed a spool of sheer blue ribbon, held it up to your cheek, then immediately shook his head.

Next was a deep red. He furrowed his brow. “Nah—too dramatic.”

One by one, he held up different colors and textures next to your face—some he barely considered before tossing them back, others had him tilting his head, really thinking about it.

You stood still, watching him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and giddiness.

When he finally picked up a spool of soft orange lace, he paused. Held it up. Looked at you.

A slow smile crept onto his lips.

“This one,” he said softly. “It’s perfect.”

Your throat tightened.

It was the color you wore for him. The one he’d noticed, the one he remembered.

And here he was—choosing it for you. Like it was obvious. Like it had always been yours.

“Shouldn’t you get one too?” you teased, reaching up to tug playfully at a piece of his hair. “I think you’ve got enough to work with.”

Caleb grinned. “You’re absolutely right.”

He turned back to the wall of ribbons, eyes scanning for barely a second before his hand reached out with surprising certainty.

He pulled down a spool of velvet ribbon—the exact color of your eyes.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t even look at you right away. Just held the ribbon between his fingers, studying it.

“Gotta match, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because while he stood there so casually holding a piece of you in his hand, you were still trying to remember how to breathe.

You stood behind Caleb at one of the food court tables, hunched forward with delicate focus as you tied the soft velvet ribbons into his hair.

It wasn’t easy—he didn’t have much to work with—but you managed two tiny pigtails that sprouted from the top of his head like a toddler’s, crooked and ridiculous in the best way.

You giggled, standing back to admire your handiwork.

And instead of swatting them out or calling it dumb, Caleb pulled out his phone, flipped the camera, and grinned at his reflection like he’d just discovered a new level of charm.

“Oh yeah, I look good.”

He struck a pose, tilting his head with exaggerated sass.

You burst out laughing. “Yeah? You feel pretty?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Feel pretty?” his eyes twinkled as he turned back towards you. “No, I know I’m pretty.”

He pulled out the chair beside him with a dramatic flourish and patted the seat. “Your turn. Take a seat.”

You eyed him suspiciously but sat anyway. He circled behind you like he was preparing for serious work, cracking open the spool of ribbon with a little too much enthusiasm and gently petting the top of your head.

“Welcome to Caleb’s salon,” he said, voice smooth and over the top. “You’re in good hands.”

You craned your neck to look up at him upside down, squinting. “I don’t trust that.”

“You should.” He guided your head back into place with both hands.

You stared ahead, heart fluttering against your ribs while he stood behind you, threading his fingers through strands of your hair.

You couldn’t see his face now, but you could feel his focus, the care in his hands as he worked.

He gathered your hair into two little pigtails near the top of your head—mirroring his own—and tied the orange lace into uneven bows.

When he stepped back and handed you your phone to look, you flipped the camera and smiled.

They were a little lopsided, not even close to perfect.

But they were perfect to you.

“Feel pretty?” he asked this time.

You nodded, turning your head side to side to get a better look. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you for a moment—his lips parting slightly like he was trying to choose his words.

“Beautiful,” he said finally.

You laughed, brushing it off like it was a joke. “You mean your work?”

But Caleb didn’t laugh back.

By the time you made it to the exit, the winter sun had already set, casting moonlight across the sidewalk as you stepped outside.

Caleb walked beside you, swinging the bag of leftover pretzel between his fingers. You walked a little slower than usual, not wanting the day to end. Not wanting this to end.

He glanced over at you, and his eyes dropped to the bows in your hair. One corner of his mouth lifted.

"You gonna leave those in?" he asked.

You shrugged. “Maybe. Why? Embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Pfft. Please.” He lightly tugged on one of them, “I think you make 'em look cooler than I do.”

You smiled at the ground, heart full.

He let out a small breath and looked forward. “Thanks for coming with me today,” he said. “It was fun.”

Caleb scratched the back of his neck, eyes on the sidewalk, and said it like he wasn’t sure how you’d take it.

“Y’know… I missed hanging out with you.”

Your heart jumped, caught completely off guard—but you reeled it in fast, kept your face light.

You puffed your chest out playfully, trying to keep your tone casual. “Yeah, I’m pretty unforgettable, aren’t I?”

He chuckled, but his eyes stayed on you a little longer than before.

You turned your gaze forward again, not trusting yourself to hold it.

You wanted it to mean something more. So badly—but wanting things just kept ruining you.

When you got back to your house, the world had gone still—quiet in that way only winter dares to be, like even the earth was holding its breath. The night had settled softly, and the only sound was the faint crunch of your shoes on frostbitten pavement.

Snow had just started to fall slowly in the background, like it didn’t want to be noticed.

You reached the end of your driveway and turned to him.

“Wait,” you said, fingers already pulling your phone from your pocket. “I wanna take a picture of my art.”

He rolled his eyes playfully but didn’t protest, stepping back just enough so you could frame the shot. When he faced you, his face softened into something else entirely.

It wasn’t a pose. It wasn’t for the camera.

It was for you.

Something warm lived in that smile. Something almost shy—hesitant, even.

Snowflakes clung to his lashes, caught in the messy strands of hair poking out from the bows you tied. And the ribbons—your ribbons—fluttered gently in the breeze.

But it was his eyes that undid you.

Dark and shining under the porch light, like amethysts half swallowed by shadow. The snow reflected in them, tiny constellations in his iris. He looked like a boy carved from a dream—fleeting and too beautiful to keep.

You stared a second too long, then snapped the photo. Saved it to your favorites. Not just because it was a good picture.

But because it felt like capturing a version of him you didn’t want to lose.

Caleb held out his hand. “Give it here.”

You clutched your phone to your chest. “No way, you’re gonna delete it.”

“I’m not,” he stepped in closer. “Come on. Pass it to me.”

After a pause—just long enough for your heart to panic a little—you gave in, placing the phone in his waiting palm.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and gently squished your cheeks, molding your face into a pout.

You furrowed your brows in confusion, just as the camera shutter snapped.

He laughed, letting go of your face, and the cold rushed back in where his touch had been. You pressed your palms to your cheeks, not to rub away the sting, but to cool the warmth under your skin.

“You needed a picture too,” he looked down at your phone.

There was something delicate in the way he said it. Like he wanted to remember you—just as you were, here in the snow, with his ribbons still in your hair.

“Cute,” he murmured, thumb tapping the screen.

Your eyes widened. “Hey—don’t delete the one I took of you!”

You lunged for the phone— and using his evol, he held it high over your head whilst laughing.

“I’m not! I’m just making sure I look better in mine.”

You both stood there, caught in that silly moment—your hand reaching for your phone, his laughter tangled with yours in the stillness of the night. The snow swirled around you both in slow, glittering arcs—clinging to your sleeves, the world around you muted.

He finally lowered the phone, now holding it out to you with a little smile. “Okay, okay—you can have it back. I promise I didn’t delete your masterpiece.”

You took it, brushing his fingers as you did, and neither of you said anything about the way the touch lingered just a second too long.

His eyes caught what little light the porch gave, violet glinting beneath snowflakes like something out of a story you weren’t sure would end happily.

Then he nodded toward your door. “It’s freezing. You should head in before you turn into a popsicle.”

You opened your mouth to argue—to say you weren’t cold, not really.

“Go,” he said, his voice gentler this time. “I’ll see you soon.”

When you stepped inside, your cheeks stung from the sudden change in temperature, and your fingers itched as the numbness slowly faded.

You didn’t bother taking off your coat right away.

You just stood there, in the dark entryway, phone still clutched in your hand, heart still somewhere outside on the sidewalk where Caleb had smiled at you like that. Where his hands had touched your face. Where his voice had gone soft and said, “I’ll see you soon.”

You made your way to your room in a daze, the snow still glittering in your hair, shoes leaving melted prints down the hallway.

Once inside, you dropped your coat to the floor and collapsed onto your bed, phone in hand. The ribbons in your hair shifted beneath your head on the pillow, one falling loose—but you didn’t fix it.

Instead, you unlocked your phone. Opened the camera roll. Scrolled to the photos from just minutes ago.

There he was—eyes sparkling with snowflakes caught in his lashes. He looked like a painting.

You swiped to the next one. The picture he took of you.

You hated how airy you looked. How hopeful. Like your heart had written itself all over your face before your brain could stop it.

And still, you couldn’t stop staring.

Outside your window, the snow kept falling.

And as you watched it blur the world into softness, all you could think about was the warmth of his hands on your skin, the color of his eyes under the porch light, and the sound of his voice wrapped around the word soon.

You told yourself not to hope.

Your phone buzzed in your hand—a text from Caleb.

‘let me know when you get warm’

A second passed.

‘actually wait’

‘don’t, you’ll use it as an excuse to talk to me again :D’

Another pause.

‘kidding. you can text me whenever. even if you're still cold’

‘especially if you’re still cold’

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, not sure what to say back. But you were smiling—so wide it hurt, like your face hadn’t been asked to feel this much in ages.

And then you noticed it—nestled just above his texts, timestamped from just a bit prior.

A message. From you.

Your heart stuttered.

The photo he took of you—sent to his chat, not yours.

While you were too busy worrying he’d delete his own, he’d been sending himself yours.

He hadn’t said anything about it.

Compared to the frigid cold outside, your body felt like it had finally thawed from the inside out. Warmth hummed beneath your skin, buzzing in your fingertips and curling in your heart. Hell, if you looked in the mirror, you were sure you’d be glowing.

You didn’t just have Caleb back in your life, talking again—he wanted to keep you too.

You fell asleep with the ribbons in your hair. Everything was perfect.

. . . .

You’re the closest to Heaven, that I’ll ever be,

And I don’t wanna go home right now

. . . .

You didn’t usually sleep over at MC’s place—she liked your house better. Said it felt like a break from Caleb. You never really got that—a break from him? You couldn’t imagine ever wanting one.

But this time, she invited you. And while you didn’t want to be that friend, the kind who only says yes for someone else entirely… you agreed—heart already skipping at the fact that Caleb would be there.

When you arrived, you hadn’t even unpacked your bag yet before Caleb was sauntering into the room—arms behind his head, socks mismatched.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite ribbon girl,” He shot you a lazy smile, “guess the gang’s all here.”

The three of you fell into an easy rhythm, or at least, it seemed easy. MC was her usual loud, bright self, bouncing from snack to snack, laughing at her own jokes. Caleb matched her beat for beat, as he always did. And you—you laughed when you were supposed to, nodded when it fit, and tried to keep up with the tempo of the third wheel.

It was late and the screen was playing a movie none of you were really watching. MC lay sprawled out on the couch, her voice drowsy and soft.

“My neck’s killing me,” she whined. “Caleb. Do something.”

Caleb made a face. “What do I look like to you, a massage therapist?”

“A lazy one,” she shot back.

He moved anyway, climbed down behind her and began rubbing her shoulders in slow, practiced circles. Like this was routine, like it was something they did.

You stared at the screen, but the image blurred.

His fingers moved slowly and gently. She made some soft noise, teasing him when he hit a knot, and he rolled his eyes in that way he always did when he was trying not to smile.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself.

Caleb down at you from the couch, and tossed a piece of popcorn at you.

“You good?” he asked.

You forced a smile. “Fine.”

The moment passed.

Then her phone lit up.

zaynie <3 calling…

You saw it before she did. The way her whole face changed when she picked it up. Like he had dialed into some part of her that no one else could reach.

“Heyyy,” she said, rolling over and away from Caleb. “Missed you.”

And just like that, she stood up and left. Took the call upstairs like the rest of the room didn’t matter anymore.

Caleb was quiet. Still sitting there, his hands empty now. He stood, dusted nothing off his pants, and dropped onto the floor next to you with a sigh.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer right away. You were still watching the stairs, watching the shadow of MC’s voice floating down, sugary and sweet.

“Maybe she just really likes him,” you said.

“He doesn’t even like her… not really.” Caleb turned to you, annoyed. “Zayne likes school. That’s it. He graduates in the spring, and he’s not gonna have time for her anymore when he goes off to university in the fall.”

“Then maybe she needs to figure that out for herself.”

He scoffed. “She’ll just get hurt.”

“Maybe,” you said. Then, quieter: “Or maybe you need to stop waiting around for her to realize something she doesn’t want to.”

He looked at you—a long, puzzled stare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You forced a little laugh, picking at your sleeve. You worried you had struck a nerve. “Nothing. Just... maybe it’s time you looked somewhere else.”

You meant it.

He shook his head. “I’m not wired like that. I don’t just switch things off.”

“Doesn’t have to be switching off. Just... shifting focus. Trying something new.”

He let out a breath, something between a scoff and a laugh—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah? Like what?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t—because what were you supposed to say? Me?

So instead, you looked at him. The TV light hit his face in just the right way—highlighting those ridiculous eyes, the ones you’d loved since before you even knew what love was. They flickered with frustration, with sadness, with something so close to tenderness you could almost taste it.

But it wasn’t for you. It never was.

He leaned back against the couch with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answers were written up there.

You stayed silent beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Mile to mile.

He didn’t look over again, but rested his head on your shoulder.

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe too deep. Because if you did—if you shifted even slightly—you were terrified he’d lift his head. That he’d remember where he was, who he was leaning on.

And maybe it was pathetic.

Yeah, it probably was.

But you’d take the weight of him over nothing at all. You’d carry it gladly.The movie played on, long forgotten, just sound and flickering light. He was quiet, lost in a place you would never be invited to.

And yet… he reached for you anyway. Not just because you were there, because when his world tilted and spun, you were steady. You were warmth without demand, softness without question.

He wanted you—just not like you wanted him. Not with the fire you carried in your chest for him. Not with the hunger that hollowed you out every time he looked past you.

He wanted your quiet, your presence.

Your shoulder to lean on when hers wasn’t there.

And maybe that was love, in some twisted, diluted form. Maybe he did love you—in the way people love familiarity. In the way someone might miss the smell of home but never stay long enough to unpack.

Your shoulder ached, but your heart ached more.

You wanted to cry. Not sob—not loudly, just let tears slip out slow and unnoticed. Because there was something deeply cruel in being almost chosen.

Looking at the screen, at the blur of colors you couldn’t name, you thought maybe this was all you’d ever be. A detour before he remembered where his heart belonged.

And you swore if he reached for your hand, you would’ve taken it. You would’ve broken your own heart just to hold his a second longer.

But he didn’t, he just breathed softly against your skin.

And you sat there, the rot inside of you blooming too wide for your chest.

You said nothing.

Because what was there left to say, when even silence hurt?

You took what he gave you—gratefully, almost desperately—because it was more than the nothing you’d known for so long.

You reminded yourself that he said he missed you, that you meant something to him. Maybe not everything. Maybe not like you dreamed. But something. And wasn’t that supposed to be enough?

You told yourself it had to be. That being wanted in any way was better than not being wanted at all. Even if it was only in the moments she wasn’t around, when his eyes softened and his guard slipped.

Sometimes, when he reached for you, you felt you could pretend that this was enough. That crumbs could taste like a feast if you were hungry enough.

And you were starving.

It wasn’t as if he were cruel. He was never dismissive, never cold. If anything, he was thoughtful in ways that made it all harder. He remembered things—small, stupid things you wished he’d forget.

Your favorite candy, the songs you loved when you were ten, the way you tied your shoes backwards as a kid. Sometimes you caught him glancing at you like he still knew who you were beneath all the years.

Sometimes you wished he didn’t.

Sometimes you wished he’d snap at you, ignore you, give you something mean to hold onto—some reason to turn the yearning into anger. You wished he’d be heartless, just once, so you could hate him.

But how could you hate someone you loved like this? How could you hate a boy who wore ribbons that matched your eyes—tied in soft little bows to the belt loops of his jeans like he didn’t even realize what he was doing to you? He wasn’t trying to hurt you, and that’s what made it worse.

. . . .

Winter slipped away slowly, dripping from the trees and sidewalks like it didn’t want to leave. The snow thawed, and everything came alive again. Buds peeked from branches, the world turned pretty and green, the sky starting to hold more blue than grey.

But no matter how much the world shifted, you didn’t feel any different.

You thought you would—yet spring only brought more confusion.

Because Caleb never pulled away. He still sat next to you in class when he could. Still gave you that stupid, heart melting smile in the hallway. Still texted you late at night about nothing and everything. Still tied your ribbons to his belt loop, still brought you candy.

And you were left wondering what any of it meant.

Because as much as he gave you moments and fragments—he still looked at her like the sun rose behind her shoulders.

You were caught in the in-between. The maybe. The almost.

And it was worse than being ignored.

You were friends. Sure, that part you understood. But was that all? Was that all he saw when he looked at you?

Because if it was, why did it hurt like this?

You were friends with MC too. And she never looked at you the way Caleb did. Never leaned into your side, never reached for your hand out of nowhere, never lingered in your doorway just to say one more stupid thing before leaving. You and MC had never shared that kind of closeness that you and Caleb had.

And it wasn’t just some guy thing either. You knew Zayne. You watched how he acted with her, the way he smiled and touched her arm, shared his stupid sunglasses and inside jokes. It was obvious what he wanted. It was easy to read. Caleb? Caleb was something else entirely.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because he never said anything. Never clarified. Never told you what you were or weren’t to him. He just kept giving you pieces.

What were you supposed to do with that?

You wanted to scream. To shake him and demand answers. You weren’t some placeholder. You weren’t his emotional crutch for when MC wasn’t around. But if you said anything, anything, you were scared it would all disappear.

You thought winter was heavy—but spring? Spring was unbearable. Because the world was blooming and he was still not yours.

You had started to reach your limit.

You could only be so compassionate. You only had so much empathy—only so much hope to give before it all began to die inside you. Before you felt stupid for still believing in anything at all.

Slowly, the pieces of yourself began to slip. Slipped through the cracks, down into some place that felt like fury and heartbreak mixed together. You were unraveling, losing your marbles one by one.

Frustrated was too gentle a word.

Prom season, junior year. The first one you were allowed to go to. But what was the point? To squeeze into a too loud dress and pretend you weren’t invisible in a crowded gym full of glitter and heartbreak? To stand alone while MC and Zayne twirled under cheap lights, and Caleb glared at the back of their heads from across the room?

Because that’s exactly what he had done when he found out Zayne asked her.

You didn’t mean to overhear their fight through your window, but the whole neighborhood practically did.

“Seriously?” Caleb barked. “You’re going to prom with him?”

MC sounded stunned. “Caleb, I don’t understand why that’s a problem.”

“I just—I thought you hated dances.”

“I do,” she snapped, “but Zayne asked me and I thought it might be fun! What’s with the attitude?”

There was silence. He didn’t answer her. You could picture it—his jaw clenched, that angry crease in his brow. The way he’d look at her like she had just betrayed him, without even knowing how or why.

MC’s voice was quieter after that.

“Caleb… what’s this really about?”

But still, he said nothing.

And it killed you. Because even she didn’t know.

She didn’t know he was in love with her. She didn’t know the way he watched her, the way he spiraled over her. She didn’t understand why he acted like this—and maybe that was the worst part. Because she didn’t even mean to hurt him.

She never did.

Honestly, you didn’t think he’d go at all—because who was Caleb without MC?

Sure, he was still the heartthrob. Captain of the basketball team. The boy teachers fawned over, who made old ladies smile at the grocery store and got away with murder just by flashing that grin. On the outside, he was untouchable.

But you knew better.

Without her, he felt lost—like a kite with no string, flailing in the wind and pretending it was flying. He never said it out loud, but you’d seen it. In how his confidence cracked when he didn’t have her around.

So why the hell would he show up to prom alone?

Why go to some overhyped high school dance when the girl he loved more than anything was showing up on the arm of someone else?

You knew him. Knew how deeply he attached his identity to her, even when he didn’t realize it himself.

So you were surprised, to say the least, when he asked you.

Well—told you.

Some boy from your History class caught you between periods—he was the type who always spoke up when called on, always cracked jokes in group work. You’d talked before, mostly in passing, always lended him your pencils. You knew he played basketball, knew he sat at the end of the bench near Caleb, but that was about it.

He stopped you by your locker, holding out one of the many pencils he’d borrowed.

“Hey, thanks for this,” he said casually. “Also—been meaning to ask—are you going to prom?”

The way he said it was confident. Like he already knew the answer, like you’d be crazy to say no. It wasn’t pushy, just matter of fact—you weren’t sure you were really being given a choice here.

Before you could get a word out, Caleb materialized beside you.

Arm around your shoulder. No warning, no “hey.” Just suddenly there. Like he always was, when you least expected him but needed him most.

His voice was deceptively sweet. “I didn’t know you two talked.”

“We don’t really,” the boy didn’t miss a beat. “ But I was asking her to prom.”

You didn’t even have time to react.

Caleb’s grip on your shoulder didn’t change, but his posture shifted. Slightly in front of you now. Calm and casual, but there was more now under the surface.

With the way Caleb stood beside you, it pulled you back to those days on the playground, when he was a kid with teeth bared, standing guard with a stick clenched tight in his hands—ready to fight one of the boys that had stolen your chalk.

But now it was just his arm around your shoulder, yet the fierce protectiveness hadn’t dulled. His posture, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed—it was the same guard dog instinct. You could feel it in your bones, a warning that no one else could cross this line. That was Caleb’s claim, before he even spoke a word.

“Oh,” Caleb said, smiling like it wasn’t the start of a storm. “Sorry, dude. She’s going with me.”

That made your eyes snap to him.

The boy blinked, confused. “Oh. Really?”

Caleb turned to you then, eyes locking onto yours like a silent challenge—expectation, tension, a little heat.

“Isn’t that right?” he asked.

You stared at him, unsure if you were angry or flustered or just completely lost. Your mouth opened and closed. You knew you should say something, should correct him, should remind him he never even asked.

But with his violet eyes shimmering like fire trapped in glass—you nodded.

“Right.”

The boy backed off, giving Caleb a tight lipped smile before walking away.

You stood still, Caleb’s arm still a brand. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

“Since when am I going with you?” you asked, voice low.

Now he turned, that easy confidence wavering just slightly when he caught your expression.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to go alone.”

“I didn’t say I was even going,” you glared.

“Didn’t say no, either.”

You stood there wondering what the hell just happened.

Because he hadn’t asked. He’d claimed.

You stared at him as he walked off down the hall, waving back at you like it was nothing.

He was only asking because MC was going with Zayne. Because he didn’t want to be the one left out. Because he needed someone—anyone—to keep him from feeling like second place.

Exhaling, you deflated right there in the middle of the hallway.

Damn it. Now you had to get a dress.

. . . .

And all I can taste is this moment,

And all I can breathe is your life

. . . .

There was a kind of silence that felt eerie—like the world was holding its breath. A soft spring rain dusted the streets in a dull mist, the sky grey and sad. Not a single car passed by your window. It felt like an omen, if you let yourself think about it long enough.

You had woken up early, just like every other girl probably did on prom day—but unlike them, your chest was tight. Something was wrong. You didn’t know what exactly, but your body did. That gnawing dread wouldn’t leave you, even as you tried to force yourself through the motions.

Every breath felt wrong. Every moment alone in your room only made the silence louder. You curled your hair with shaking hands. Did your makeup with a pit in your stomach. Got dressed like you were preparing for a funeral instead of a dance.

MC was going with a different group of friends. She’d invited you to come along—kindly, of course—but you’d said no. Didn’t want to intrude.

You knew you’d feel like an outsider.

But maybe that’s what made the air feel so tense.

That’s what you told yourself.

You looked pretty. The dress shimmered against the gloom outside, your hair tied up and curled with Caleb’s—no, your purple ribbons. The long gloves you bought felt a little ridiculous, but you wore them anyway. Told yourself they made you look regal.

But no matter how hard you tried, that sinking feeling wouldn’t leave.

Caleb arrived with a knock at your door, and he smiled when he saw you. You didn’t expect really much of a reaction from him, you knew you weren’t the one he had wanted to go with tonight.

You weren’t sure you wanted to go with him either—at least, not this version of Caleb. You wanted the version of Caleb you had grown up romanticizing.

And he wanted MC.

You’d told him the colors of your dress—purple and orange, like a sunset—but you didn’t send a picture, no matter how many times he asked.

He had nagged you about it all week. But you wanted it to be a surprise. Maybe some small, stupid part of you thought that he’d see you and pause. Say something that would make all of this feel worth it.

You wished you’d never tried to make it special at all.

He looked you over. “You look good,” he said, “Didn’t think you’d pick something like this.”

You let out a pathetic laugh at his poor compliment, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “Yeah. Me either.”

It wasn’t the reaction you wanted.

But then again, he hadn’t been the boy you wanted in a long time. You were learning that the hard way.

You pitied both of you, and it crushed you. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not the way you imagined it. There was no excitement, just this haunting, hollow feeling—no limousine, no friends laughing around you, no magical night.

The look in his eyes while he put on your corsage—whatever it was—was something you couldn’t reach. Maybe regret, maybe guilt, maybe just tiredness. You couldn’t blame him. You’d rather be anywhere else, away from this tangled mess between you, away from the silence that screamed louder than any words.

Your friendship was strangling you, twisting tighter with every forced smile and every awkward moment. It was supposed to be something safe—a warm blanket you both could wrap yourselves in when the world got cold.

But instead, it was a ball of tangled yarn, knotted with all the broken pieces neither of you knew how to unravel. And you were suffocating, drowning in what it had become. You wanted to pull it apart, tear it open and let it all fall apart rather than keep pretending it could be smoothed out, but you were too scared of what the emptiness would feel like without it.

The night was fading into a blur, each moment slipping past like smoke. Your mind was a mess of static, every word Caleb muttered to break the silence during the photos, during the drive to school, just washed over you and disappeared. You felt detached, like you were watching yourself from outside your body.

You wished—if only you could pretend hard enough—that this was all a dream. That when you finally opened your eyes, none of it had happened. Caleb never asked you. You could go back to living with the kind of sadness that at least made sense, the kind you were used to.

Or maybe, you’d wake up and Caleb would be yours. It would be prom morning, but everything would feel right. Everything would line up with the way you’d dreamed it, planned it, wished for it to be. But you knew, deep down, that waking up to that kind of hope was just as painful as facing this empty reality.

The gym was a chaotic mix of noise and shadows, too loud to think while the flashing lights stabbed at your eyes. The air was thick with sweat and perfume, bodies packed too close in dresses that hung awkwardly and suits that were too tight. Caleb was pulled away almost instantly, swallowed up by a group of his friends laughing loudly, already slipping into a world you didn’t belong in.

He looked back at you—searching for maybe a sign that you were okay, or that this wasn’t as lonely for you as it felt.

You forced a small smile. “It’s okay,” you told him, but the words felt small, a fragile shield against the gnawing hurt growing inside as he was tugged away toward the table where they all sat, already leaving you behind.

Finding your way to a quiet corner, you pictured the gym as it was that night you had gone to Caleb’s basketball game. Felt that feeling of hope, the first time in what felt like forever he had made a conscious effort to make you feel seen.

But then he chose her. Without a word, without a glance back. You were left standing by the cold gates, swallowed by the dark and silence, waiting for someone who never came. That night, months ago, should have been the first warning—a cruel prophecy of all that was to come.

A little ways off, where the music pulsed and bodies moved in rhythm, you saw MC spinning like a princess in her dress. She was everything you thought she’d be—like a light bright enough to awaken the dim room, shining and dazzling everyone around her. Her laughter bubbled up, surrounded by friends who hung on every smile. She looked like she belonged there, like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Your hands twisted together, trembling, tears gathering but refusing to fall.

You looked beautiful.

You had your dress, your hair done, your makeup just right.

You were here with Caleb.

No—you were there in a corner.

Alone.

You sank to the floor, not even flinching when the grime clung to the hem of your dress—the one you told yourself would make you feel beautiful. It didn’t matter now. You felt dirty anyway. Used up. Stupid for thinking this night would be anything but a reminder of everything you didn’t have.

You hugged your knees to your chest, blinking through the tears that refused to stop. The music kept playing, song after song bleeding together, slow ones turning fast and back again. You watched couples sway under the lights like it was the easiest thing in the world to be loved. And you just sat there, still as stone.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there before a voice pulled you out of your mind.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, you lifted your head from your knees, not expecting anyone to notice you curled up in the shadows. But there he was—Zayne, crouched in front of you, concern written all over his face.

You straightened quickly, wiping at the tears on your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” You let out a laugh that sounded maybe a little too fake.

Zayne didn’t look convinced. His eyes flicked around the room before landing back on you. “Where’s Caleb? I thought you two came together.”

“I don’t know. He disappeared with his friends as soon as we got here. I haven’t really seen him since.”

He sighed and quietly sat beside you without another word.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said, curling in on yourself again. “You should probably be with MC.”

“And you should probably be with Caleb,” he replied, resting his head back against the wall. “Looks like both our dates are having more fun without us.”

You followed his gaze. MC was still out on the dance floor, spinning in circles with her friends.

He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. You’d grown up around Zayne just like you had with Caleb. You knew him—knew this wasn’t his scene. He was here for her. Just like you were here for someone who didn’t really want you.

You tried to make conversation, anything to distract yourself from where you were—and where you weren’t.

“So,” you said, voice still scratchy, “you excited to graduate?”

He glanced over, giving a soft shrug. “Yeah, a bit.”

“That’s cool…That’s cool…” You sometimes forgot how quiet Zayne was, in contrast to the girl he was with.

“I’m just hoping I don’t trip when I walk across the stage.”

It made you smile, and for a second, things didn’t feel quite as lonely. You were still sitting in a corner, still dressed up with no one looking for you, but at least you weren’t invisible anymore.

“I thought this night would feel different,” you admitted quietly, eyes on the chaos of the dance floor. “I thought it’d feel special.”

Zayne didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he understood.

“I like your dress,” he said.

It was simple. Just a compliment. A nice, polite thing to say.

But it hit you harder than you expected—because it was the least someone had given you all night.

Before you could stop it, the tears started to fall again.

Zayne’s eyes widened a little, clearly startled. “Oh—I didn’t mean to—”

You shook your head, holding up a shaky hand. “No, no, it’s not you. I’m okay, I promise.”

You weren’t. But it was easier than admitting how desperately you had needed to feel seen.

And seen you were—when a pointed, loud “Ahem” broke the quiet between you and Zayne.

Caleb stood a few feet away, arms crossed, and jaw tight.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “Look who remembered he had a date,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You almost laughed—almost. But your stomach turned instead.

You quickly wiped at your face, forcing yourself to stand. “Hey,” your voice was thin. “You, uh... you disappeared.”

“I’ll let you two talk,” Zayne said, finally pushing himself to his feet and brushing off his pants. He looked at you and gave the faintest nod, not quite a smile, yet still was the most comforting gesture you had received that night—before he walked off with hands in his pockets.

You turned back to Caleb, hands twisting in the fabric of your skirt.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb said, not looking at you.

You didn’t know what to say. Your cheeks were damp, your eyes sore, your makeup probably ruined. You didn’t really want him to see you like this anyway.

“S’okay,” you mumbled. But it wasn’t. And a part of you wished he’d never found you at all. At least then you could stay in that corner with Zayne, pretending you didn’t care.

“There’s a slow song next,” he said, clearing his throat. “Do you want to dance?”

You hesitated, then nodded. His hand reached for yours and you let him take it. Let him lead you to the floor.

The music was soft. The lights spun gently overhead. Around you, couples swayed like they were in love.

Caleb’s hand found your waist. His other stayed in yours. It was the way you were supposed to dance. Normal, fine.

But it felt like he was holding you just far enough away. Like if he pulled you closer, he’d feel everything—your hurt, your want, your love he didn’t return.

And you were scared if you got any nearer, you’d fall right into him. Disappear into someone, a soul that didn't want to catch you.

You blinked slowly. Let your gaze drop to his chest, the fabric of his button up creased a little too much from where he probably yanked it off a hanger last minute. You had tried so hard—made everything perfect. And for what?

“Caleb,” He looked at you then, startled, like he wasn’t expecting you to speak.

You opened your mouth to say more, but nothing came. There wasn’t anything left. Nothing he hadn’t already ignored.

So instead, you said the only thing that didn’t feel like begging.

“Thanks for dancing with me.”

He nodded. Smiled a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You wondered if he even wanted to be holding your hand.

The song was almost over.

And you wished it had never started.

He watched over your shoulder, eyes fixed on something. You tried to ignore it, but then he spoke.

“Why were you sitting with Zayne earlier?”

That was it?

Of all the things he could’ve said… that?

Not Are you okay?

Not I’m sorry I left you alone all night.

Not You look beautiful.

Just that.

You were flabbergasted. “Seriously?”

Caleb finally met your eyes, face unreadable. “I just didn’t expect to see you with him. That’s all.”

You gave a disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t expect it? I was alone, Caleb—for most of the night.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked vaguely uncomfortable, shifting his weight like he couldn’t decide whether to defend himself or stay silent.

Typical.

You tried to let it go. Tried to smooth down the fire rising from your toes and through your throat—to be reasonable, level headed and calm. The kind of girl who doesn’t make a scene. But then, something in you cracked.

You turned your head, following his line of sight. Zayne and MC were dancing.

They looked good, and comfortable. Happy. MC glowed under the gym lights, and Zayne had that rare, soft look on his face.

And there Caleb was, still staring.

“Is that what this is about?” your voice rose just a bit, not enough to turn heads, but enough to sting. “You’re upset because I was sitting with someone who actually noticed I was upset? Someone who, I don’t know, maybe cared?”

Caleb’s brow furrowed. “It’s not like that. I just—Zayne’s always been—”

“Don’t. Don’t turn this into something it’s not. You abandoned me tonight. Not him.”

“I can’t lose you.”

You froze.

He looked right at you, eyes desperate. “I can’t lose you to him too.”

Too.

That word.

You didn’t even fully understand it—what it implied, what he meant—but it scraped something inside of you anyway.

“I’m not a fucking consolation prize, Caleb,” you snapped, voice breaking on the edges of anger. “You don’t get to ignore me all night and then get jealous. You don’t get to watch me fall apart and only speak up when your ego is bruised.”

His face paled, but you didn’t care.

Because all the things you’d been holding back—the pain, the loneliness, the crushing sense of disappointment—were flooding to the surface now, unrelenting.

“You don’t get to lose me,” your voice wobbled, “because you never even had me.”

The music blurred in your ears. Your pulse roared.

You broke free from his grasp, practically running out of the gym.

You ran, and you ran.

You ran until you didn’t even know where you were going—you just needed to get away. Away from the music, the lights, the people, him.

You kicked off your heels halfway down the street, too tired to care that your feet were raw, bleeding from the blisters. Your dress dragged behind you, snagging on twigs and the sidewalk and god knows what else. You didn’t care.

You didn’t care about anything anymore.

Then you tripped.

You hit the ground with a loud slap—palms scraping open, knees stinging. You just stayed there, frozen. The kind of still that comes after your body gives up. After your heart already did.

And then it started to rain.

Like, really rain.

Cold, heavy and merciless—soaking through your hair, your dress and your skin in seconds. It was quiet, but not peaceful—like the world had decided to shut up just to let you hear how alone you were.

You crawled forward a bit before curling up like a little kid. Arms wrapped around your legs, head tucked down, shaking all over.

Your body started to rock, and then you were crying. The kind of crying that sounds like gasping. Like begging—like something being ripped out of you. You couldn't even tell where your tears ended and the rain began.

You looked down at your dress, torn and muddy, and it made you cry harder. You tried so hard to look pretty for him. You practiced walking in heels, curling your hair, doing your makeup—just to be his date. Just to be chosen. Just to feel like you were enough.

But you weren’t.

Not for him.

You never were.

You cried like a kid. Like someone who’d just realized love doesn’t mean safety. That sometimes people don’t show up. That sometimes, you’re not enough for them to stay.

And sitting there, soaked and shaking, with your mascara smeared down your cheeks and your hands burning from the fall—you didn’t feel like a teenager anymore. You felt five. You felt like a little girl, crying on the sidewalk because Caleb had taken one of your toys. Except this time, it was your heart. Your life.

You curled up tighter, but it didn’t help. You were soaked straight through. Your teeth started to chatter, but you didn’t even try to stop them. You just sat there shaking.

You whispered to no one, “It’s cold.”

Your voice cracked. You said it again.

“It’s cold.”

It was all you could think. All you could feel. Cold, and alone. And small. So small. And you hated that the world just kept going. That the rain didn’t pause for your heartbreak. That the streetlights still flickered above you like everything was fine.

Eventually, your body couldn’t take it anymore. Your knees hurt from how long you'd been sitting, and your hands were stiff and raw. So you got up, dragging yourself to your feet, soaked dress clinging to your legs like it didn’t want to let go either.

You walked home.

Barefoot, your shoes long gone. The sidewalk was rough and uneven, cold and sharp. You felt every step, but also… you didn’t. Your brain had turned off somewhere between the gym and the street. You didn’t look at anything, didn’t check your phone, didn’t cry anymore. You were empty now—wrung out.

By the time you reached your front door, your fingers were too cold to get the key in right. You fumbled and dropped it and just stared at it for a second on the welcome mat, wondering how this had become your life.

You went straight to the bathroom, peeling the wet fabric off your skin piece by piece. Your zipper got stuck and you cried out in frustration—because it was just one more thing.

You looked in the mirror and wished you hadn’t.

Your makeup was a disaster. Your eyes were red and puffy. Your hair hung in damp, tangled clumps. You looked like a ghost. Like a little girl who’d been left behind. And maybe that’s what you were.

You didn’t even shower. You just wiped your skin down with a towel, like that would make it all go away. You stepped out of your dress and left it crumpled on the bathroom floor, too tired to care.

Crawling into bed, still damp, the cold clung to you under the blankets. You curled onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut.

And in the quiet of your room, you whispered one more time:

“It’s cold.”

Not just your body.

Everything.

Your eyelids were heavy, sore from all the crying, and they started to fall shut on their own—suddenly everything felt far away. Like you were still watching yourself from outside your own body.

You could still feel the cold.

It echoed inside you—like a scream that never stopped ringing.

Your breath hitched once, maybe twice, and then your body gave out.

It was a loud, cracking thunder that yanked you out of sleep like a slap. You shot up, heart pounding, breath caught in your throat. For a moment, everything felt heavy and blurry, like your body hadn’t caught up to your mind. Like you were underwater, or dreaming.

You sat there, dazed, blinking at the darkness until another flash of lightning lit up your room as you flinched. The room looked unfamiliar under the pale blue white glow. Like it didn’t belong to you, none of this did.

Still half asleep, half sick from everything, you shuffled to your window, hands weak as you reached for the curtains. You just wanted to shut it all out—the storm, the world, the ache in your chest. You were so cold, and so tired, and—

Then you saw him.

Caleb.

Out there in the rain.

You froze. Blinked. Rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there under your window, soaked through like you had been earlier that night—hair dripping, arms limp at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. His eyes were lifted, searching, and even though the rain blurred everything, you knew he was looking at you.

For a second, you were convinced you were still dreaming. That maybe you hadn’t actually woken up. That maybe your mind had conjured this out of sheer exhaustion and heartbreak. It felt too surreal, too cruel and too stupid.

Because what else could it be? Why else would he be there now?

For a second, you just stared.

Part of you was too tired to even feel anything.

But then the confusion came. The disbelief. Then the anger—creeping hot up your spine.

What did he want?

What did he think this was?

You just stood there, silently, trembling in your oversized t-shirt, mascara still smudged from earlier. You were cold. So cold.

And he was just out there.

Looking like the boy you wished had loved you right.

He looked so small out there. And you felt so small in here.

Caleb would’ve been stupid not to know exactly how you felt. You were sure of that. Maybe he never said it out loud, never admitted it—even to himself—but he knew. He saw the way your eyes lingered on him, the way your smile faltered whenever he looked away, the way your whole body tensed and softened in his presence. He knew.

And you sometimes wondered if he used that—your feelings—as a kind of quiet leverage. Not because he wanted to hurt you, not because he was cruel or calculating. No, Caleb wasn’t like that. But he had his own battles, his own demons clawing at him, and you were there. You were safe, always willing, always there. You didn’t fight it. You just let yourself get wrapped up in whatever he offered.

You loved him. Painfully so.

And Caleb knew it.

He didn’t need words. He never needed words. You think maybe that was his silent power over you, and maybe his curse.

The rain tapped harder against the windowpane as you slowly closed the curtains, shutting out the cold, the storm, and the figure waiting outside. You shut it all away—his gaze, your heart, the space between you that kept growing wider.

You wanted to close him out, too. But you knew that no curtain could block the way he’d already found inside you.

. . . .

And sooner or later, it's over

I just don't wanna miss you tonight

. . . .

Just as fast as it had seemed like maybe—maybe Caleb loved you back the way you loved him, he vanished. Not physically. He still walked the halls. Still laughed in class. But it was like you’d been scrubbed from his memory. Like you were a bad dream he didn’t want to admit he ever had.

Or maybe you were the ghost. Hovering and haunting, left behind in the wreckage of something that never even got a proper name.

And that was the worst part—there wasn’t even a clean break. No screaming match. No final fight. Just silence. Just Caleb looking through you like you were steam on a mirror, like all he had to do was blink and you’d be gone.

Though he tried to talk to you a few times, after that night—you still shut him out. Slammed the door of communication closed. You wanted him to feel the gut-punch. Wanted him to beg. To grovel like he always did for her.

You wanted him to feel it—wanted him to hurt.

You thought he might fight for you. Thought maybe if you made him miss you enough, he’d come crawling back the way he always did with MC.

You thought if you were good—if you were patient and quiet and hurt in silence—he’d realize what he lost.

Silly girl, you were never her.

You’d never be her.

But still, you watched him. And sometimes—when he thought you weren’t looking—you caught it. The way his face would twitch. The way his eyes almost darted to yours like they used to. The ghost of a habit he was trying to unlearn.

You told yourself that meant something. That it was proof he cared. But glances aren’t apologies. And flinches aren’t love.

You were grieving someone who wasn’t even gone— and that’s the cruelest kind of mourning, isn’t it? Not absence, but a presence that ignores you.

He was right there. He just didn’t really see you anymore.

It’s like being underwater while the world goes on above you. Like screaming with your mouth full of blood and saltwater and no one ever hearing. You were still there—heart still beating, love still burning—but he’d already moved on like none of it ever mattered. Like you never mattered.

And the worst part?

You still loved him.

Like a song stuck in your teeth.

Like a scab you keep picking.

And he just keeps walking.

In love, you spoke in lifelines. He spoke in escape routes. You kept translating, bending, breaking to understand him.

You kept setting fires in your chest, and he kept warming his hands and leaving.

Zayne graduated, and just like Caleb said he would, he was gone by summer. And with that, everything Caleb had warned about came true.

He left MC.

She was wrecked—crying in the bathrooms, drifting through the halls like she’d lost a limb. And a part of you felt for her. You did. You knew the sting of being left behind, of watching someone you loved choose something (someone) else over you.

But your heartbreak had been different. And unlike MC, you didn’t have Caleb to help sweep up the damage.

If Caleb hadn’t been obsessed before, now he was relentless. He was at her side constantly—waiting at her locker, following her laugh like a tether, orbiting her like he couldn’t breathe unless she let him. He bent to her every need. Carried her books, fetched her favorite coffee, dropped everything the second she called. It was like watching a soldier answer roll call—there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t belong to her.

The rest of senior year passed like that.

You had your own future planned—acceptance into Hunter’s Academy, something you should’ve been proud of. But even that was overshadowed. MC, despite being a year younger, had louder dreams. Dreams people paid attention to. She was going to be a hunter too, and somehow her ambition shined brighter. Everyone saw it. Everyone talked about it. You were just the…one who got in first. Something like that.

And so, you started to fade.

Life became something to get through. With time, a faultline cracked open beneath your feet. A quiet divide between you and everyone else.

And instead of trying to cross it, you stood still. Because at least on your side, the silence didn’t lie to you.

. . . .

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

. . . .

You graduated—walked the stage, took the diploma, and smiled for the picture—ut inside, there was nothing. No flicker of pride. No sigh of relief.

People clapped, your name was called, and you existed. That was the most you could say.

It felt like the past two years had sucked all of the life out of you. Silly teenage girl and silly teenage love, yet you still carried that grief with you through the summer and to the Hunters Academy.

It wasn’t excitement that got you there—it was inertia. You had nowhere else to go. Nothing else waiting for you.

You existed on autopilot: wake up, train, eat, study, sleep.

Repeat.

You passed exams. Earned marks. Beat out half your class by sheer willpower alone. And still, no one really saw you. You were just… there.

No one ever really saw you. Not when you were a kid, not in the chaos of high school. You existed quietly, in the background—present, but never quite acknowledged. Like wallpaper in a room full of louder voices.

And the one person you wanted to see you—the only one whose opinion ever really mattered—never truly did. Caleb.

He went on to the Aerospace Academy, chasing his dreams with the same certainty he didn’t chase you. And you were happy for him, because you’re the kind of person who still loves people who hurt you. You clapped for him through a screen, watching from the sidelines like you always had.

He’d like your posts sometimes. You’d like his. That was the extent of it. No messages. No check ins. Just the algorithm throwing two ghosts at each other every now and then, reminding you he still existed.

As if you could forget.

You became mutuals in each other’s lives. Background characters. Polite nods in the hallway of adulthood.

And somehow that hurt more than anything else.

Because you didn’t forget.

You remembered every version of him—every moment that made your heart hurt when you looked at him too long.

It was like everything the two of you shared had dissolved into nothing. Like your whole childhood had been a figment of your imagination. Like you were the only one who felt it all for real.

You were close to graduating from the Hunters Academy when something shifted in you. Maybe it was just a crack in the numbness.

Either way, you found yourself driving back home—the place you’d been avoiding for quite a while.

Past the corner store where you'd once bought candy with spare change. Past your old high school, its windows still filled with the same kind of teenage loneliness. Past the playground, empty now, except for the memories of who you used to be.

You kept circling. Not really sure what you were looking for—maybe a feeling, maybe some closure. Proof that it didn’t all happen in your head.

Because you had left this town, but it never really left you. Its grip was firm—the streets still knew your name, the air still smelled like the version of you that never got to grow up right.

It was like your soul had gotten stuck here, trapped in the cracks of the pavement and the dust on old windowpanes. A ghost, pacing the same streets, waiting to pass on—but never really knowing how.

As you pulled up to the curb outside your childhood home, the past was already wrapping its hands around your throat.

And there he was.

Sitting on his front steps like nothing had changed. His eyes widened slightly when he saw your car, recognition hitting him.

His lips twitched into the beginning of a smile, and he lifted his hand in a wave—that wave.

You stepped out of the car, forcing a small, polite smile back, because what else were you supposed to do? Hug him? Cry? Pretend like it hadn’t been too long you last saw him—unless you counted the glimpses of him in photos online, standing inside a life that didn’t include you anymore.

You didn’t even make it to your porch before his voice stopped you.

“Hey there,” he called, shielding his eyes from the low evening sun, squinting at you like he needed to really see if it was actually you. “What brings you back to this little old town?”

“Visiting,” you looked at him for a beat too long, then glanced down and fidgeted with the keys in your hand. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He tilted his head a little, pretending to think, “Visiting,” he echoed.

Caleb shifted over on the steps, patting the spot beside him—like there wasn’t years of silence and heartbreak hanging in the air between you. Just a simple gesture, an invitation.

You stood there, frozen for a second.

Your brain screamed no, told you this wasn’t smart—you weren’t even sure coming home had been good for your sanity. And now this? Caleb, inches away? Alone?

But your body moved before your heart could catch up.

Because your soul still recognized him. It remembered the way his eyes used to light up when he looked at you. It remembered the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the cadence of his voice when he whispered your name. He had Pavloved you. Conditioned you, without meaning to, into obedience.

You hated that he still had that power.

And you sat down. Because even if it destroyed you, some part of you still wanted to know if there was anything left to ruin.

“How’s the Hunters Academy treatin’ you?” Caleb asked, his voice so familiar it made your head swirl. That voice had once been your comfort—had once been home.

He looked… different. Not unrecognizable, but not quite the same either. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like someone who’d lived a little more.

You rubbed at the fabric of your jeans. “It’s okay. I graduate in a few weeks.”

Caleb let out a low whistle. “Didn’t realize that much time had gone by. You must be excited.”

“Yeah,” it was the easiest thing to say.

“Do you see MC a lot?”

There it was. Her name. You didn’t even get one full conversation before she slipped in.

You looked down at your hands, at the little ridges on your knuckles, anything but him. “Sometimes.”

She was also a student at the Academy now, following right behind you—always a step behind and yet somehow miles ahead.

“You’re graduating soon too,” you tried to steer the conversation, to redirect it anywhere else. “Right?”

Caleb nodded slowly, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Feels weird. Like I blinked and suddenly I’m here.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Because for you, time hadn’t passed in a blink—it had dragged. Time that felt like a decade, marked not by milestones, but by every time you managed to get out of bed. Every time you saw him tagged in another photo with her. Every time you reminded yourself not to care, and still did.

“Do you like it? Flying?”

He paused, eyes shifting away like he needed to look far enough away to answer it honestly. “It makes sense to me. Being in the air, it’s quiet up there.”

You nodded, “Quiet sounds nice.”

He looked over at you then. And maybe it was just your imagination, but for a second, it was like he could see it. All of it. The hurt. The years. Maybe even the version of you that used to look at him like he hung the stars.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

You snorted, tired. “Life’ll do that.”

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I didn’t either,” you admitted.

Caleb stared out at the horizon, the sky bruised in orange and purple—the setting sun dipping low behind the rooftops and trees. You followed his gaze. It reminded you of that night—of your dress, and the light it caught as you moved. It reminded you of him, too—of the boy he was, the boy you loved, and the one who never reached back.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he, for a while. Just that quiet between you, full of things too old to still hurt this much.

Then, softly:

“I hoped you would.”

You swallowed. “You don’t mean that.”

He shifted a little, elbows on his knees. “I do.”

You finally glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you. Just his hands, like they might say something for him.

“I checked in. Here and there.”

You frowned.

“Your posts. Stuff you’d share.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t know if I should say anything.”

You waited. He didn’t say more.

“I didn’t hate you,” You stared at the sky again, the purple deepening, the orange slipping.

“I thought you did.” his words stung. “Would’ve made it easier.”

You knew the feeling.

Silence passed—just the soft sound of crickets in the grass, and the rustle of wind in the trees being exchanged between the two of you.

Caleb stood, stretching like he’d been holding something in. “I should probably get dinner going for Gran and MC. They’ll be home soon.”

You nodded and watched the sky shift fully into purple, the sun finally disappearing like it had somewhere more important to be. You stood, dusted off your jeans like you could shake off everything else too.

“Hey,” he said before you could leave, voice quieter now. “I’ve got something for you. Come grab it before you leave town.”

You looked at him then—into his eyes, not just at them. And for a moment, you felt so small. Like nothing had changed. Like you were still that girl who wanted him to choose her. Who thought he might.

So you didn’t say anything else.

You told him goodnight. Waved.

And left.

You never grabbed whatever he had for you.

You were scared.

. . . .

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

. . . .

You saw it on the news.

Another explosion caused by a Metaflux fluctuation.

At first, it barely registered. Just background noise in the chaos of everything else. A feeling of sympathy for the strangers caught in it—until they weren’t strangers anymore.

Until you saw the pictures.

That yard. That house. The one next door.

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your body hollowed out.

You remember laughing on those steps. Smiling in that yard. That same yard now torn apart on the screen in front of you.

MC had posted something about her and Caleb, visiting Josephine.

You froze. Maybe for a second, maybe for an hour—you couldn’t tell.

Then you moved.

Rushed to your phone, his contact already there like it had been waiting for you. You hit "call." Let it ring. No answer. Hung up. Called again.

Again.

Nothing.

You sent messages. Poured every panicked, shaking thought into them.

Please call me.

Are you okay?

Please.

I just want to know you're okay.

Caleb please.

There was no reply.

Not that night. Not the next.

Three days passed. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Every time your phone buzzed, your chest seized.

When it finally lit up, it wasn’t him.

MC.

Her voice cracked, but she was alive. You were grateful for that.

But then she said it.

"Caleb’s gone."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Your mouth moved but no sound came out.

You holed yourself up in your room like you were curling into your own grave. Days passed. Maybe weeks. Time lost all meaning. It dragged and collapsed in on itself like your chest every time you remembered.

You didn’t go to work. Didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. You stopped checking your phone, stopped opening the blinds. Stopped being.

Your bed became a coffin. You laid there, eyes open, blinking slow, letting all of it crush you inch by inch. You didn’t cry at first—couldn’t. It was worse than crying. Your grief was too big for tears. It swallowed you whole.

Then MC texted.

Said she’d been in Caleb’s room. Said she found something with your name on it. Said she’d leave it on your doorstep.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Just stared at the screen until it dimmed, then set it face down and turned away.

You left the box there.

For hours. For days. Then you imagined someone stealing it—ripping it open, tearing through whatever he’d left you.

And the fear of losing it—losing one more thing—dug its claws into your chest and pulled you out of bed.

You dragged your body to the door like it weighed a thousand pounds.

There it was.

Small. Plain. Wrapped neatly with that goddamn ribbon.

You hadn’t seen it in years.

That lopsided bow he always tried to fix three times before giving up and grinning like an idiot.

In your color.

Your knees nearly gave out. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you were going to be sick right there in the doorway. You almost left it. Almost let the wind or a stranger take it from you. Almost walked back to bed and pretended it had never been there at all.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, clutching it too tight like it might vanish if you let go.

You brought it inside and set it on the floor by the door.

And then you stared at it.

For hours.

For another day.

For as long as it took to work up the strength to open the last thing he’d ever give you.

You finally undid the ribbon one morning, when curiosity and desperation to know what it was finally overcame you. Peeling back paper revealed a black box, with gold lettering of the name of a familiar company you couldn’t help but forget to recall.

Inside it sat a loose leaf paper.

“I’m sorry,”

It read.

“I miss my best friend.”

That was it.

Two lines.

You stared at them for a long time. Like maybe you’d read them wrong.

But they didn’t change.

You gripped the paper until it tore.

Beneath it was the necklace.

That necklace. The one you’d stopped in front of that shop window years ago to admire. He’d remembered. He’d bought it. Wrapped it up. Written you a note.

Called you his best friend.

It shattered something in you.

The tears came fast—ugly and unstoppable. Not neat or quiet, but sobs that raked your throat raw.

You weren’t angry at the gift.

You were angry at him.

Angry that he never told you the truth when he was still alive. That he let you spend your whole life clinging to this hope, this maybe, this someday. That he made you feel like there was something there—every glance, every moment, every brush of his hand that lingered just long enough to make you wonder. All of it.

He didn’t have to love you back. But he should’ve said something.

Instead, he left you with two lines and a necklace.

You screamed. You screamed so hard it hurt your ribs, begged the empty room for answers, for a rewrite, for one more chance—just one—to say everything you’d never gotten to.

But he was gone, and now there wasn’t even the comfort of pretending. No half-smiles across the room, no soft memories to cradle yourself in, no flicker of hope to nurse late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.

You clutched the necklace and the note to your chest like they were the last things in the world. You curled around them like they could still protect you, like if you held them close enough maybe you’d wake up and he’d still be alive.

You tried to believe it was him you were holding—not a box, not paper, not metal—but him.

But it wasn’t, it would never be.

You sobbed until your throat gave out, until your tears soaked your clothes and the floor beneath you. You screamed his name into the quiet, begged for him like a child, like someone praying for a miracle that wasn’t coming.

But Caleb was gone.

And he never saw you the way you saw him.

55 notes · View notes

hxlxnaaa · 3 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a year after the breakup, one fight still haunts them both. when sylus shows up again, it all comes rushing back—every kiss, every scream, every regret. they miss each other. they need each other. and this time, they’re not letting go.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: ex boyfriend sylus, canon divergence, slight angst if you squint, dw there's comfort, brief mentions of zayne, reader is VERY briefly implied to be a student, plot with porn, emotional make up sex, like crying during the deed, slightly toxic but they're in love, they're healing ok, sylus is a simp, reader is down bad, this is soft and filthy at the same time

★ 𝐰𝐜: 10.5k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: this came to me in a prophetic vision and i needed to write it. i LOVEEE the idea of ex boyfriend sylus. like mmmm give me more…. anyways im not very good nor comfortable with writing smut but i had to do it so here it is. i hope i executed it well LMAO. was originally gonna be porn with plot but i got too locked in… enjoy!

Nothing about the breakup was amicable.

It wasn’t one of those slow fades, where two people quietly drift in different directions until they’re just gone. No, it was one fight—loud, sharp, nasty and just downright cruel. The kind that leaves a ringing in your ears and words you wish you could take back. One moment, and everything you were just blew apart.

You didn’t walk away.

No, you crashed—hard. Spun out of each other’s lives like planets knocked off course.

You always fought like that—both of you stubborn, neither one willing to back down. It wasn’t anything new. You’re not even sure what exactly made you lose it that time.

Maybe it was the way he embarrassed you in front of everyone. Maybe you’d had too much to drink. Or maybe you were just finally done. Done with the constant tension, the little digs, all the crap you kept letting slide. Just sick and tired of his shit.

You don’t even remember what you said, just playfully whining to your friend beside you.

“You get used to her overreacting. She just needs attention.”

And then everyone laughed. Maybe at you, maybe just at the joke—who even knows anymore. He always had a way of getting people to laugh like that, soaking up attention with that slick charisma he wore like his dumb expensive cologne. And this time? That charm of his came at the cost of your dignity. Your pride.

You bit your tongue and swallowed everything you wanted to scream. Unlike him, you weren’t going to make a scene—not in front of all your friends. No, you kept your mouth shut, had a few more drinks, sat in silence the whole Uber ride home, and waited.

He followed you inside like nothing was wrong, started taking off his coat like he always did, settling in like it was just any other night. But you stopped him. Told him to hang on a second. Then you walked straight to your room, grabbed every single thing he owned—every sock, every hoodie, every stupid little trinket—and dumped it all at his feet.

And that’s when it started. You brought up what he said, how he embarrassed you, how he made you feel like a goddamn joke in front of everyone. And of course—of course—he didn’t take you seriously. Laughed it off, like he always did. Like your anger, your hurt, was some kind of performance he’d already seen too many times.

Like your overreacting was just a grab for attention.

That’s when you snapped. You weren’t just arguing about that night anymore—you were tearing into everything. Every moment you’d swallowed your pride, every time you felt small, every time he talked over you or dismissed you like you didn’t matter.

You started throwing his stuff at him, screaming like your chest was on fire, like you could rip his voice out of the air just to make it stop. Told him to get the fuck out, that you never wanted to see his stupid fucking face again. It was bad, the kind of fight that had cops on the doorstep. That was the only thing that finally got him to leave. The only reason that ugly night finally stopped.

Then came the texts—him cycling through the five stages of grief in your messages.

‘Sweetie, you know me better than this. What happened to us, to you?’

‘Can we just sit down? I’ll listen, really. I’ll hear you.”

‘Don’t throw away everything we’ve built in one moment of anger.’

You had to silence his calls, his texts. Your phone had practically turned into a vibrator with the way he was spamming it.

But you never found it in yourself to block his number.

Once, you walked out of class and there he was, waiting outside like he’d been watching for you. He tried to talk to you, and you had to practically sprint to get away. After that, you started taking different routes to your classes, finding back ways around buildings, just to avoid him. It felt like you couldn’t even breathe without him showing up.

He sent gifts to your doorstep; monetary, thoughtless gestures like expensive jewelry, new designer clothes, extravagant bouquets. But on nights you spent cramming for exams or buried in the library, you’d come home to meals from your favorite restaurants or baskets filled with all the snacks you loved.

There was never a note, but you didn’t need one. You always knew who it was from.

But it didn’t take long for it all to stop. The texts, the gifts, the way you’d catch glimpses of him standing around places you used to go. You thought you’d be relieved, but now… it’s different. Sometimes, you almost miss it—the reminder that he was still there, still trying. It felt like you still mattered to him, even if it was twisted.

Despite all the fights, he was good. Good to you, and just good in that rare, complicated way some people are. His heart was made of gold and steel—soft in places, unbreakable in others. He just didn’t always know how to use it.

But you know you mattered to him. You felt it, even when everything else was falling apart.

Right person, wrong time, you guess.

Because despite your 3 year relationship coming to an abrupt, sudden and earth shattering halt—life goes on.

Though, it took a while.

At first, his constant pleas for forgiveness built a wall between you and any real chance at healing. And then there was the regret—that heavy, gnawing feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’d made a huge mistake. That maybe you’d let go of the best thing you ever had. Lost something you weren’t sure you’d ever find again.

It didn’t help that you shared the same circle of friends. He was everywhere—smiling in group photos, lit up in stories, slipping into your feed like a ghost that refused to rest. You’d catch a glimpse, tap the tag, and spiral into his page like it was muscle memory. You told yourself it was harmless curiosity, that you just wanted to know if he was okay now that the begging had gone quiet.

But deep down, you were searching for something else.

Hoping he hadn’t moved on.

Eventually, you found a rhythm. Learned when to look away from social media, which friends to sidestep in conversation. You slipped into a beat that no longer used him as an instrument.

And slowly, quietly, you began to write a new song.

Without Sylus.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

You sat cross-legged on the floor of Zayne’s apartment, your head resting in your hands as you watched him work. His eyes were locked on his laptop, fingers moving with careful precision, while his glasses kept sliding down the bridge of his nose. Every few minutes, he’d pause just long enough to push them back up, never once looking away for long.

You’d been seeing each other for a few months now. It had been a year, finally a full year, since everything fell apart.

“Better to get back out there,” you told yourself.

You met Zayne through one of your new friends. He had asked for your number, and you gave it to him without thinking too hard—if you did, you’d start to feel the guilt you were trying to desperately ignore. He’s a doctor, living the kind of life that sounded like ambition carved into marble—precise and immovable. He had plans, timelines, a path so clearly mapped out it felt like there wasn’t room for detours.

He’s sweet. Gentle in ways you didn’t realize you needed.

He doesn’t set off fireworks in your chest, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe peace was always the thing you were chasing.

But, sometimes, being with him felt like standing in a waiting room of his life. Like you were something brief, something meant for now but not later. A warm presence to come home to, but never quite a part of the long term picture.

Because of that, you weren’t exactly together—but you weren’t not together, either. It was strange, undefined, but it worked. You didn’t know if you were ready for something more serious yet, a new commitment after what came before.

And Zayne was so different from him.

Zayne was calm where he had been wild. Predictable where he had been chaotic. Steady where he had burned.

But sometimes you missed the fire.

The way he could make you feel like the center of the universe with just a look, the way everything with him was urgent, desperate, alive. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been electric.

With Zayne, it sometimes felt like you were too much for him. Like he didn’t really know what to do with all of you. But with him, it was the opposite—he couldn’t get enough.

Zayne was still a good guy. That should’ve been enough.

Even if you already knew what it felt like to be wanted completely. Wanted like a storm.

"Do you want to grab food?" you asked, tapping gently on the back of his laptop. You knew better than to interrupt his flow, but you hadn’t come over just to sit and watch him work.

He hummed in response, barely acknowledging you.

You sighed. "So you wouldn’t care if I blew up your apartment?"

Another hum.

To be fair, he had promised dinner earlier. He just needed to finish his work—and then he just needed a bit more time… And then a little more after that.

That was three hours ago.

This time, you reach for the top of his laptop screen, and his eyes flick up to you—blinking slowly, like he’s just now registering the reality outside of his research paper.

Zayne frowns, the disapproval clear on his face. You mirror him with a frown of your own, arms crossing over your chest.

"It’s getting late," you say, your tone edging on impatient. "Let me know what you want, and I’ll go pick it up."

“No, it’s alright.” He finally shuts his laptop with a quiet click, then takes off his glasses and sets them gently on the table beside him. His eyes meet yours—tired, a little guilty.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” he says, voice softer now, like he means it.

You shrug in response, but inside, your thoughts begin to stir.

They did this sometimes—whenever Zayne did something even slightly wrong.

He would never do that.

He would never make you wait more than an hour—and that was only if something came up. He always respected your time, always made sure you knew you were a priority.

He was always there when he said he would be—in every single sense.

The guilt rises again, thick and suffocating in your chest. Guilt for what you did, guilt for even thinking about him when Zayne is right here. The way Zayne’s hesitation, his lack of urgency, makes everything feel distant.

‘If he would never do that, why don’t you go back to him?’ Though sarcastic, the thought cuts through you bitterly. You scoff, but the question lingers.

“Where do you want to go?” Zayne asks, his voice pulling you out of the fight with your own subconscious. You blink, disoriented for a moment, before his words sink in.

“Anywhere you’d like,” he continues, “As an apology for making you wait so long.”

You don’t know why you say it, and you're not even sure if you want to go there, but the words leave your lips anyway. You tell him you want to go to this place across town.

Zayne doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the history of that place, the weight of the memories tied to it, the way it feels like a part of him still lingers there. And you don’t want to taint him with that—don’t want to drag him into this aggressive, aching space inside you.

But it’s like everything in you aches to go there, anyway.

To feel a fragment of him again, even if it’s through something so small, so insignificant. Just to be near a place that once held the kind of warmth you crave now. To feel a piece of what it was, even if you know you’ll never truly get it back.

To just miss him for a second.

Maybe it’s cruel of you to drag Zayne along. He’s clueless, unaware of the heaviness of this strange little hole in the wall restaurant. Doesn’t know why you stay silent the entire ride, eyes fixed on the world outside, every single tree passing by like a painful reminder.

You can feel the hole in your chest, the space he used to fill, and it’s all you can do not to let it consume you.

When you arrived, even the bricks outside were enough to make your heart lurch. For a second—an honest, long second—you forgot who you were with.

You turned, expecting to see silver hair, eyes like cut rubies, that familiar warmth of a presence that used to pull the air from your lungs.

But instead, you were met with something gentler. A forest, not a flame.

Zayne took your hand, his brows drawn with concern. “Are you alright?” he asked.

You forced a smile—too quick, too practiced—and nodded.

“Yeah.”

But even as the word left your mouth, you could feel the lie settle in the air between you.

The inside was just as cruel. Small and warm, familiar in a way that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed. The feeling was a tie between a warm hug and suffocating.

Maybe you were a masochist for letting yourself come here—for asking to be brought back to a place that held a feeling you’d buried so deep it shouldn’t have surfaced this easily.

It was just a small place you found by accident one lazy evening. But once you fell in love with it, he made it tradition.

Every weekend, like clockwork, he’d take you on a date. And more often than not, you’d ask to come here.

Eventually, the owners knew you by name. Knew your usuals, your laughter, your habits—the shape of your love, even.

And standing there now, with Zayne beside you, the warmth and familiarity turned sharp.

You realized what you’d done.

Who you were with.

And for a moment, regret bloomed in your throat like a bruise.

Were you that ex? The one who dragged new boys through old memories like ghosts on a leash?

No.

Zayne wasn’t your boyfriend. So it didn’t count. It didn’t mean anything.

Right?

You found a table in the corner, far from that quiet little booth tucked near the stage—the one that had soaked in your fights, your laughter, your deepest conversations.

The one that still held all of that messy, complicated love.

Far from the exposed brick wall where you’d once scrawled your initials with the red lipstick you always carried.

His favorite shade.

You still have it in your purse. You never took it out.

Why didn’t you take it out?

The band was bustling, the loud jazz music crashing against your thoughts like waves. You knew Zayne would hate it here—too loud and too cramped for him.

The faint frown tugging at his face confirmed everything you already knew.

You had to order at the bar, and you silently hoped—begged—that he’d take the hint, take the lead.

You just wanted to stay in your seat, stay still; let the noise swallow you whole while you slipped quietly back in time.

Just for a little while.

And he did. Zayne stood with a sigh and made his way to the bar, already checking his watch like he couldn’t wait to leave.

You stayed seated.

Let your eyes wander around the room, soaking in the soft haze of memory like it was smoke in your lungs.

You imagined another version of this moment—one where you weren’t sitting there with someone you knew well, but still felt like a stranger; who held your hand too gently, smiled too politely.

One where the seat across from you was filled with someone who looked at you like you hung the stars, the sun and the moon alike. Who never looked at his watch because time was never wasted with you.

From where you were sitting, you knew the only thing you’d be able to see through the crowds of people at tables was the band and that stupid, beautiful booth.

You couldn’t look at it.

You wouldn’t look at it.

You looked.

Oh.

You met his eyes, and the world forgot how to spin.

The air stilled. The conversations and music seemed to pause, a single note stretched out across eternity.

Everything—everyone—stood frozen in place.

Time held its breath.

And for one impossible second, it was just the two of you again.

What was he doing here?

Was the universe playing some cruel trick, drawing you both back to this place like gravity? Why your booth?

Why now?

His eyes scanned your face like he wasn’t sure you were real—like you’d stepped out of a dream.

Then came that smile.

The soft one; the one he used to give you in the quiet, perfect moments when the world was small, just the two of you.

There was no venom in it. No pain. No trace of the wreckage you left in each other.

Just something tender.

As if none of it had happened.

As if you were still okay.

You couldn’t help but smile back.

It was instinct, not decision—like your face moved before your mind could catch up. Like your chest cracked open just wide enough to let the light in.

It felt like winter turning to spring, when everything thaws out and comes alive again. when the frost softens and color creeps quietly back into everything.

Your heart bloomed, slow and trembling—like a flower daring to open again.

He lifts his hand in a wave, mouthing “Hello.”

“Hi, Sylus.” You mouth back

Your lips felt strange shaping his name. Like they weren’t used to the syllables anymore—like they’d forgotten the rhythm of it, the way it used to sit so easily on your tongue. It felt foreign now, like a word in a language you once knew by heart but hadn’t spoken in years.

Everything started moving again when your drink was sat in front of you. You looked up, and Zayne’s face was tired, pained even.

"Thank you," you murmured, fingers idly twisting the straw. He stayed quiet, as he always did, his gaze fixed on the band, listening to the music, indifferent to you.

You glanced over at the booth again, just to make sure.

And he was gone.

Your heart froze up again, going back to winter. The flower that had started to bloom died in an instant.

Did you just imagine him? He was there in a second, gone the next.

Was coming to this place such a bad idea that you started hallucinating your ex boyfriend?

Suddenly, the once familiar comfort of this place turned on you, becoming suffocating and unbearable. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, a flush of panic exploding beneath your skin. Every hair on your body stood on end, as if now bracing for something that wasn’t there.

Your chest tightened, breath shallow, the music too loud, the walls too close.

What the hell just happened?

You pushed your food around the plate, appetite long gone, and caught glimpses of Zayne doing the same.

The high had worn off—whatever rush or adrenaline that had carried you through the moment had collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a deep, aching hollowness in your chest.

All you wanted was to crawl into bed and fall apart. To let the tears come in the dark, mourning the vision your mind had conjured up like some sick joke.

To sit with the guilt of missing him. Of returning to this place. Of dragging Zayne into the wreckage of your past.

He didn’t know a thing—not really. You never told him. Never told anyone, if you were being honest.

It wasn’t something you ever felt the need to say out loud. You kept it locked away, tucked in a corner of your soul like something sacred and shameful all at once.

But now, sitting here, watching Zayne shrink into his chair, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d tainted him, too. Dragged him into a history he had no business being part of.

Was it you? Or was it this damn bar? Maybe both were cursed.

You excused yourself to the bathroom, muttering something about needing a moment, but really you just needed to slam your head gently against a stall door and splash cold water over your face. Anything to snap yourself out of whatever spiral this was.

You stood in front of the mirror, blinking hard, like maybe the reflection would shift. That maybe you’d look solid again—real, awake and breathing. But as you smoothed your hair, you really looked. For the first time in what felt like ages.

The circles beneath your eyes were deeper than you remembered, carved in like bruises you forgot to cover. The spark behind those same eyes had vanished, a dull, empty quiet staring back. The color in your cheeks had faded, drained from your skin like it had somewhere better to be.

Where had it gone?

With him.

Your life went with him.

You walked back out to find Zayne at the bar, settling the tab. His expression was unreadable, but it didn’t take much to tell—there wasn’t a smile left in him tonight. His eyes were low, his mouth set in a line.

This was going to be a long ride home.

And it was. Long. Silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t just quiet, but loud in all the wrong ways. The kind that pressed against your ears and made your throat tight. The air in the car felt thick, like you couldn’t swallow a breath.

Would it have killed him to turn on the radio? Like, just a song? Was he that mad at you for dragging him somewhere out of his comfort zone?

The answer was yes.

“Listen,” Zayne said as the car rolled to a stop in front of your apartment. “Can we talk for a second?”

You knew what was coming.

“Yeah, what’s up?” You replied, turning toward him with a hollowness in your voice. There wasn’t any way this night could get worse.

He let out a breath, one of those slow exhales people do when they’re trying not to make something worse than it already is. His hands fell to his lap, unsure, then found the wheel again.

“You’re great,” he started, eyes fixed somewhere ahead, like looking at you would make it harder. “You’re really sweet. Kind. But I think…” A pause. A swallow. “I think we’re headed in different directions, two very different people.”

That damn bar.

“Yeah.” You repeat again, hand reaching for the door, “It’s okay. I understand.”

“You’re great though.”

I heard you the first time, you want to say.

Instead you just nod, climbing out of the car and heading inside.

When you see his car pulling away through the glass of the lobby doors, something inside you gives out. The tears come hot and fast, spilling before you even reach the elevator. You don’t care who sees.

The couple down the hall pauses mid conversation, shifting awkwardly as they juggle grocery bags and avoid your eyes. The old woman waiting by the elevator doesn’t look away—after a second, she rifles through her purse and presses a butterscotch candy into your palm.

You thank her as you both take the elevator up. She doesn’t say a word, just gives you that soft, knowing look only age can shape. The kind that says heartbreak is universal, and survivable.

You’re still crying when you reach your door, fumbling with the keys through blurred vision. The tears come in waves now—messy, relentless—and you’re not even sure what they’re for anymore. It’s like a year’s worth of grief, pressed down and packed tight, finally burst free all at once.

It wasn’t really about Zayne. You’d known for a while you didn’t belong in the future he was building, and he wasn’t ever really yours to begin with. But tonight? Of all nights?

Really, karma? You think, bitterly. Was this supposed to be funny?

When you finally get inside, something feels off. You pause, your hand still on the doorknob. It was light out when you left—had you accidentally turned a light on? You don’t remember doing that. The glow from the kitchen spills out like an omen.

You shut the door slowly, silently, and that’s when you hear it—a shuffle.

Your body locks up. Heart in your throat, you reach for the pepper spray on your keys, hand trembling.

Of course. Of course. Out of all the godforsaken nights for your apartment to get broken into—it had to be tonight. Because why wouldn’t it be.

What luck!

You catch a quick movement—and without thinking, you lunge, instinct taking over. A desperate swing in self defense. But just as fast, you’re caught. Arms wrap around you, pinning you back against the body of whoever’s in your home.

This is it, you think, panic thundering in your chest. This is how I go. What a night to die.

But then—

“Easy, kitten.”

The world stops. Your entire body goes rigid.

That voice.

That goddamn voice.

A voice you haven’t heard in thirteen months and twenty eight days. Not that you were counting. You tried to stop counting—god, you did—but the days clung to you like dust in sunlight. Every hour ticked by like a relentless grandfather clock, towering in the corner of your mind, never breaking and never missing a chime.

Always ringing.

Always reminding you.

And there it was again. Smooth as velvet, soft like the worn fur of a childhood bear. It wrapped around you with the grasp of memory, gentle and impossible to forget. Like your favorite song buried deep in your mind, untouched for years, and yet the moment it plays—you remember every note, every breath, every rise and fall.

You don’t know if you want to turn around. There’s a part of you that’s afraid he won’t actually be there, that if you look, you’ll just be staring at an empty room or some figment your mind cooked up to fill the silence—because maybe you’re imagining him again. After the night you’ve had, it wouldn’t be too far off.

Maybe you’re just tired, emotional, and your brain is pulling memories of your ex out of storage. And honestly, with the way things have gone, that would be exactly your kind of luck.

You’re yanked out of your spiral when he turns you around, slow and careful. And there it is—his face. That same stupidly beautiful, maddeningly familiar face. The one that made you laugh, made you cry.

Sylus, Sylus, Sylus, Sylus, Sylus.

You don’t know whether to swing at him for breaking into your apartment or hold onto him so tight you melt into his bones—crawl into his skin, make a home in his ribs. Never leave his side again.

He searches your face, stares at you like he’s just as unsure of your existence as you are his.

You take a step back, putting some space between you, letting your eyes scan him like they might find something new. But he’s the same. Same worn coat, same styled hair he swore looked better like that, same silver “S” hanging from his neck. But his eyes—they match yours, tired and drained. Like everything of the past year sits on his chest, just like it does on yours. And suddenly, he doesn’t look so untouchable anymore. He looks just as haunted.

It’s on you, if you’re being honest. Sure, he said some things that cut deep, and yeah, you were exhausted—mentally and emotionally by that point. But you’re the one who tossed three years away like they didn’t matter. Like they were disposable. One angry moment, one impulsive decision, and it was all over. You didn’t stop to think about what it would do to him—or to you. And when the dust settled, you were too damn proud to go back, to say you messed up, to admit that walking away wasn’t really what you wanted. You both lost something special, because pride got in the way. Because despite all the arguments, he was your person. And you were his.

“I made coffee,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

“At this time of night?” you reply, eyebrows lifting but not really questioning it.

You can’t find it in you to ask how he got in, or even why he’s here. The words don’t form, caught somewhere between exhaustion and surrender. Tonight has taken too much out of you—emotionally, mentally, physically. You’re too drained to be angry, too hollow to press for answers. And maybe, deep down, you don’t really want to know. Maybe pretending is easier.

Pretending you came home from a hard night, and he was here, waiting for you like he used to. Like nothing ever fell apart between you. Like the months without him hadn’t happened, like the space between you two had never formed in the first place.

You know it's ridiculous.

Definitely unhealthy.

But in this moment, you don't care. You're tired—so, so tired—and the comfort of familiarity, even a fractured one, feels like the only thing keeping you upright. Because maybe you're a little crazy. Or maybe you’re just lonely. Maybe you’ve spent so long missing him in silence that your heart doesn’t know how to stop.

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s trying to smile but can’t quite get there. And that’s when it hits you—since seeing him today, not once has he worn that usual smug grin he always carried so effortlessly. No teasing, no playful glint in his eye. Just this look, like you’re something out of a dream. Like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and he doesn’t fully believe it. Like you’re some kind of miracle, and he’s still trying to convince himself you’re really standing there.

You walk past him and into the kitchen, where two mugs sit on the counter. You stop when you notice them—your matching mugs, the ones you picked out during that trip, the ones shaped like a cat and a crow. You remember how you practically screamed when you saw them, all excited like a kid in a candy store. Of course, he bought them for you, because that was just who he was.

He’d do anything for you.

You don’t know why you’ve kept them, not after everything. But there are certain things, small things, that you can’t bring yourself to let go of. These mugs are one of them. They hold too many memories—too many nights spent tangled in blankets during movie marathons, too many late night conversations at the kitchen table over cups of coffee just like this.

And the moment you take that first sip, you realize—he still knows exactly how you like it.

Sylus leans against the counter, watching you. Analyzing.

“What’re you thinking about?” You mumble over the rim of your mug. He raises an eyebrow in surprise before standing up straight, rolling his shoulders back as if he's gathering the confidence to speak his mind. It’s strange to see Sylus like this—like he has to work up the courage to say something, something you’ve never seen him do before.

"Who was the guy you were with tonight?" He takes a drink.

You scoff. "Sylus, be for real."

"Is he your boyfriend?" He sets his mug down a bit too forcefully.

"You really broke into my apartment over a guy?"

"I asked you a question first, sweetie."

"Fine." You roll your eyes, setting your mug down and crossing your arms. "No, he's not my boyfriend. Well, kind of. But whatever he was, he’s not anymore." You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head at the irony. "Actually, he ended it outside."

"Is that why you were crying?" Sylus’s expression hardens, and you regret your choice of words for Zayne’s safety.

Sighing, you shrug, not really sure how to answer that. “No, I think that was just the straw that broke the camel's back.”

"Do you... want to talk about it?"

He was never great at comforting people, but Sylus was one of the most caring and empathetic people you’d ever known. He just wasn’t always good at showing it.

"I don’t know." You avoid his gaze, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. "I went to the bar tonight because I wanted to feel something. Feel a part of you again. And I don't think I realized just how much I missed you."

You surprised yourself with how easily the truth spilled out, after all this time. But that was always the way with him—honesty never felt like work. It came naturally, like breathing. You used to hate that about him, about what he brought out in you. Because maybe if you'd kept more to yourself, held your tongue a little tighter, you wouldn’t have fought so much. Maybe silence would’ve saved you both some hurt.

"Seeing you again brought everything back, and it was just a lot all at once. Then I got dumped after all of that. Kind of felt shitty."

You were ready for him to bite back, make a remark that would start a fight. Say something about how all of this was your fault anyways. Ignite the flame.

Honestly, you kind of wanted him to. Wanted to feel some sort of sick piece of your previous life together.

But he didn’t. Just pressed his lips into a line while he paused to think.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology felt foreign, strange even, coming from him. He was never one to admit he was wrong, and for a moment, you wondered if this was one of the rare times you’d ever hear him say he was sorry.

“For... what?" Confusion flickered across your face. It was painfully clear for once he wasn’t the one in the wrong here.

"I'm sorry things ended that way."

You weren't sure if he was talking about the night or the entire relationship, but as you looked at him, sincerity in your eyes, you whispered, "I'm sorry that it ended at all."

Sylus finally smiled—really smiled—the kind of grin that cracked through the solemn silence like sunlight after a storm. Like he’d been holding his breath this entire time, just waiting for you to say those words.

You lifted your hand, stopping him before the moment could get ahead of you. “The fight we had was stupid. And breaking up? That was impulsive. Irrational.” Your voice wavered. “And maybe... maybe you were right. Maybe I do just overreact.”

“No.” he said, already making his way to where you sat, each step careful, like approaching a wild thing.

“No?” you echo, blinking up at him.

“No,” he says again. “You were hurting. And I didn’t see it. That’s on me too.”

He kneels beside your chair, resting his hands on your knees like he used to when he had something serious to say. His eyes search yours, looking for anything and everything.

“I should’ve asked you what was wrong instead of trying to fix you like you were some project. I didn’t know how to handle you—us sometimes. But I never stopped—” His voice catches for a quick second.

Sylus swallows hard, eyes glancing to the floor. “I never stopped thinking about you. Missing you. Hoping you were okay.”

You stare at him, heart tight in your chest. You want to say something but your throat burns with unshed tears, eyes stinging and cheeks hot.

He lifts his hand, hesitant, brushing his fingers just barely against yours. “I don’t want to keep pretending like losing you didn’t tear something out of me.”

You don’t even realize your hand is moving until it’s already holding his. It fits the same way it always did—like nothing had changed, and everything had.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss to each of your fingers, then lingers at the inside of your wrist like he’s afraid to let go.

“Come back to me, sweetie. Please.”

You lower yourself to the floor beside him, knees brushing the cold tile as you refuse to let him bear the weight of this alone. He didn’t belong down there—not without you. If blame was to be shared, so was the burden. You had always been equals, and you’d meet him where he was, just like always.

Gently, you take his face in your hands, cradling it like something fragile. Your thumbs brush over his cheeks as you tilt his head from side to side, memorizing the features you never truly forgot.

He’s Sylus. He’s home. He’s your heart and soul.

“I never really left,” you whisper.

Sylus leans in, slowly and carefully—just enough for his nose to brush again yours, a quiet question hanging in the air between you. Not demanding, just hoping and waiting.

You close the space with a kiss, gentle and unsure at first, like trying on a memory. But the moment your lips meet, it all comes rushing back—how seamlessly you fit. Like you were made with the shape of him in mind.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, tentative at first, then grounding. The kiss deepens just a little, and it’s not desperate. It’s not about lust. It’s about grief and forgiveness, about missing someone so deeply that your soul aches and yearns to touch theirs again.

Yeah, that doesn’t last long.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But suddenly your hands are tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer like the space between you is unbearable. Like air doesn’t matter if he isn’t in it.

His lips crash back into yours with more urgency this time—less hesitation, more ache. It’s not soft anymore. It’s desperate. Months of wanting, of regret, of missing, all boiling to the surface and spilling out through every touch, every kiss, every small gasp between breaths.

Sylus groans against your lips, his hands everywhere at once—your hips, your back, your jaw—as though he can’t decide what to touch first, only that he has to. Your fingers slide under his shirt, palms skimming fever warm skin, and he shudders like the contact burns. He decides on one hand sliding up your back, the other buried in your hair as if to anchor himself there. You let him. You want him to. You want to feel all of it—everything you’ve been pushing down since the moment he got dragged out of that door a year ago.

When he pulls you into his lap, it’s not gentle. It’s a need—as if not having you near him physically hurts.

At least, it hurts you.

Your thighs cradle his like instinct, and your bodies slot together like they never really stopped belonging to each other. Like you’re two atoms destined to combine.

The kiss deepens, grows messier—teeth and tongue clashing. Breath shared like oxygen. You’re not even kissing anymore, not really. You’re devouring, rediscovering. Worshipping with your mouths. He breaks only to gasp, to mutter your name like hes singing a psalm, saying a prayer, like he’s drowning in the taste of you.

“You didn’t waste any time,” you pant, lips swollen, eyes glazed.

He grins against your mouth, finally giving you that signature, smug smirk he wears so damn well. “I’ve had thirteen months and twenty eight days to starve, kitten.”

Your laugh is breathless, and it breaks against him as your hips roll forward just once. He chokes on a gasp and grips you harder, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down your throat, dragging teeth and tongue and heat as he goes.

Clothes shift. Shirts inch upward, skin revealed in patches, in hurried grazes of fingers that tremble with the weight of too much time passed. You could cry from the way he touches you—like he’s both reverent and ravenous. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again if he blinks.

Sylus.

“I missed you,” he says, and the words hit you like a lightning strike—hot and electric. It’s enough to draw a sound from your throat, a soft whimper at how deeply you feel it, in your heart and your core. Like music played in a key only your body recognizes, a melody you’ve been yearning to hear.

Because he wanted you all this time as badly as you wanted him.

No, he needed you. And hearing it now, in that voice, in this moment, feels like being set free.

Set free from all of that guilt and pain that’s been haunting you like a vice.

You cup his face again, thumbs sweeping over skin you used to call home. The skin you’ll call home once again. “Then take me back,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “Right here. However you need.”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t remember standing—you don’t think you did. All you know is the feel of Sylus’ arms wrapped around you; he carries you down the hallway like muscle memory, navigating your space with the ease of someone who never truly left. And in that moment, all you can think is, ‘please don’t leave again.’

He’s on you again before you can exhale—lips crashing to yours like he’s been waiting to breathe, to feel, since the moment you left. Since that moment the cops had to practically drag him out of your front door.

It’s desperate, disheveled, the kind of hunger that comes from months of lonely nights and phantom memories traced on cold sheets. Nights where you buried your face in the pillow that still held the faint shape of where he used to sleep, moaning into the echo of him, aching and wet for the hands that weren’t there.

And now, they were.

You backpedal until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and he follows you down with a gentleness that betrays the way his hands feel when they touch your skin. You fall together, mouths never parting, tangled limbs pressed into the mattress that hasn’t known this kind of weight in far too long.

Your shirt peels away, slow and careful. As if he’s trying to savor every second, like this will never happen again.

It will—it has to. You may die if you have to go through separation again.

He stares at you like he’s seen heaven and hell and finally made it back to the beginning. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, voice ragged. He’s barely holding himself together, a fierceness in his eyes that makes you think he may eat you alive.

You hope he does.

You reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him back down to you with need. “Then stop looking,” you mutter against his lips. “Start remembering.”

Clothes come off in stuttered gasps—half laughed, half moaned—as if each layer is a wall you’re tearing down together. Skin meets skin, the kind of touch that makes you feel tethered again. Anchored to something.

Someone.

Sylus’ mouth traces a path along your collarbone, down the hollow of your throat, over the curve of your ribs. He bites, he sucks, leaving behind a pattern of bruises and blooming marks—claiming you in color. Like jewelry only he could give you, like tattoos etched in heat that say, without words, mine. You arch into him, a whimper escaping you, and he groans in response—low and guttural.

He sinks between your thighs like a man starved returning to his favorite meal, settling into the place he’s always called home. A low, satisfied sigh escapes him—as if the world’s weight has finally lifted now that he’s right where he belongs. His hands grip your hips like an anchor, grounding himself in your heat, in you.

He trails open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, nipping at the tender flesh as a warning when you push towards his face.

When he finally buries himself in the place you’ve ached for most, it’s not gentle—it’s ravenous. He devours you like he’s been starving, like every second apart built up into this fevered need to taste and claim. His tongue moves with purpose—etching your name in cursive, apologies, confessing I love you in strokes and swirls only your body can understand.

You’re flushed, burning from the inside out, your skin damp and glowing like firelight. It’s heaven, you’re sure of it—though the way Sylus tears into you with sinful devotion, he might just be a demon sent to drag pleasure out of you until you forget your own name.

But don’t worry, he’ll spell it back out for you. Again, and again, and again.

Your moans pour from your lips, unrestrained and embarrassingly loud, the room echoing with every gasp and whimper. But you’re desperate, and past caring. It’s been too long. You missed this—missed him—the way Sylus touches you like he was made to, the way he knows your body better than you ever could. Missed the way he always, always finds his way back to you.

You haven’t felt this good in ages.

It doesn’t take long—your body coils tight, then shatters, release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your vision whites out, ears ringing with the force of it. You try to push him away, trembling hands lost in his hair, but he just smirks against your skin like the devil he is.

“One more?” he murmurs, low and wicked. It’s shaped like a question, but you both know it isn’t. It’s a promise. A command. A sentence you’re more than willing to serve.

His arms tighten around your thighs as he drags you back to him, wearing your legs like a crown, worshipping you like a man possessed. His mouth doesn’t stop—it never stops—and you break apart again, undone and helpless beneath the weight of his hunger.

You cry out his name, babbling through the overstimulation, letting the walls shake with the sound of it. Let the neighbors hear. Let the world know. You’re his—you’ve always been. And now, with his mouth rewriting every nerve in your body, you know you’ll never be anything else.

When he finally pulls back, your body is trembling, skin electric. It’s like the universe was reborn beneath your skin—like some celestial detonation bloomed inside you and scattered your bones into stardust. Every nerve feels like it’s glowing, every inch of you humming with aftershocks, like you’ve been rewritten molecule by molecule in his name.

You’re not sure if you're floating or falling, only that Sylus is your anchor in a sky full of stars he put there.

He moves back up your body slowly, this time trailing kisses along your skin like he’s putting you back together with his mouth. When he reaches your lips, he kisses you gently—like you’re something fragile and precious.

In his eyes, you are.

There’s nothing rushed now. The hunger’s still there, sure—it burns under the surface like wildfire—but it’s laced with something softer, sadder. Like you’re making up for lost time. For all the nights you didn’t have this. All the apologies neither of you knew how to give until now.

Your chest is still rising and falling, breath uneven from the waves that just crashed over you, when he finally presses against you—trembling with restraint. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his. He searches your eyes, desperately looking for anything that says no, anything that tells him to stop. There’s fear in his gaze, quiet and vulnerable—terrified this might be too good to be real.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

Instead, you nod, certain, and push your hips toward his like an answer he’s been begging for. Gently, you press a kiss to his forehead.

And when he finally sinks into you—not just physically but emotionally—it’s not about sex. It’s about return.

Reunion.

The sacred act of becoming known again, flesh and heart and harmony folding back into one another.

You cling to him like you might fall apart otherwise. He holds you like he’s scared you already have.

Your head tips back with a moan, mouth parted as pleasure ripples through you. He presses a kiss just beneath your ear tenderly, like he’s trying to keep you from floating too far away. “Stay with me, sweetie.”

As if you could be anywhere else.

His movements are slow—painfully slow—the kind of rhythm that feels like he’s savoring every second, every inch of you. He’s chasing something deeper than pleasure—he’s trying to feel all of you, to touch the parts of you he lost when you walked away. But even then, it’s not enough. God, it’s never enough.

You meet him halfway, hips rising to meet his, your body pleading before your voice even does.

“Sylus, please,” you whimper, voice cracking.

One of his hands slides down, gripping your hip harder, pulling you to him. “Tell me what you need,” he rasps, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours. “Say it, sweetie. I’ll give you everything.”

And you know he would. You could ask for a kiss, a kingdom, his last breath—he’d give it without hesitation. He’d peel the stars from the sky just to light your way home. He’d carve out his heart, wrap it in gold leaf, and place it on a priceless platter if it meant seeing you smile.

Sylus made you greedy—gave you a gold thumb. He spoiled you without hesitation, fed your hunger. And he reveled in it. Got off on the way you used him, adored how you took and took, because giving to you was the only thing that ever felt right.

Your fingers thread through his hair like you’re spinning silk, tugging at the silver strands. You press open mouthed kisses along his jaw, his cheek—anything you can reach while writhing beneath the weight of him. “Quit going so slow,” you whisper, breath hitching with every drag of his hips, “you’re gonna kill me.”

You knew exactly what you were signing up for the moment he chuckled against your lips—low, dark, dangerous. He shifted you easily, legs hooked tight around his waist. Then, with a teasing snap of his hips, he drove forward, and the sharp gasp that tore from your throat was instant, involuntary.

You barely had time to say his name before his arms locked around your body—thrusting into you with a punishing rhythm, fast and merciless. It felt like he was trying to brand you from the inside out, like he was trying to replace every cell in your body with the shape of him.

If this was how you died, gasping his name, your body split open with pleasure and your heart cracked wide, then so be it. There was no holier death than this—than being completely, utterly taken by the man you loved.

His hands gripped you hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in like he couldn’t bear the thought of ever letting go. And you clawed your nails down his back until you were sure you’d drawn blood—your bodies leaving marks like they were writing poems on each other’s skin.

It wouldn’t be the first time you two had broken a bed—and at this rate, it wouldn’t be the last. Not that he cared. He’d buy you a hundred more without blinking. Hell, he’d buy you a house just to ruin every room in it. He’ll put a baby in you right now to turn that house into a home, just to make sure you never even think about leaving him again.

Sylus groaned your name like it was the only thing keeping him alive. And you? You could only hold on, begging for more through breathless moans, because you knew—no one would ever fuck you like he did.

With every thrust, he drove you deeper into the mattress, your fingers twisting in his hair. You could feel the tears streaking your cheeks, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming rush of it all—of him, of pleasure. It was too much and not enough all at once. You’d never felt so full. So wanted. So his.

Your mascara was probably a mess, your lips swollen from kissing and your heart aching from the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“Sylus,” you gasped, barely able to breathe through it. “Oh, fuck—”

You were close, clinging to him like your body knew this was it. That after all the nights apart, all the words left unsaid, this was where you were meant to be.

His pace faltered for just a moment, a soft hiss through his teeth as you tightened around him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and shaky. You felt him everywhere—his hands, his heart, his love.

You shattered around him, sobbing as your climax overtook you, nearly screaming. It wasn’t just pleasure. It was months of longing, of everything you’d buried now clawing its way to the surface.

All you could think about was him.

His name, carved into your mind like scripture.

His eyes, the way they always burned through you, even when he tried to hide it.

That damned smirk—infuriating and addictive.

The scent of his cologne clinging to your sheets, haunting you even after he left.

His old jacket, the one you swore you hated but wore every chance you got.

The booth in the back corner of the bar where he first kissed you like he meant it.

Everything about him hit you at once—your body, your mind, your heart. Like coming home after wandering lost for far too long.

He followed suit, pulling you so close you half expected to disappear into him entirely. Like your skin was made for his and your bones had always bent to make room for him; as if you were his lifeline—and if that were true, he’d never sign a DNR. He’d beg the universe to keep you beating.

He clung to you like salvation, chanting your name between breathless gasps like a mantra. You were his altar, his ritual, his divine obsession.

His hips finally stilled, buried so deep inside you it felt like you’d been stitched together. His breath was shaky, chest rising and falling against yours, sweat slick skin pressing close as your hearts raced in unison.

And then he kissed you—the kind of kiss meant to seal a vow. It was quiet, sweet, full of all the things he didn’t know how to say.

I love you. I’m sorry. I’m yours.

So you say it—for the first time in thirteen months and twenty eight days.

“I love you.”

It slips out as a whisper, your voice rough, frayed at the edges. But there’s no hesitation in it. No fear. It’s the most certain thing you’ve ever said in your life.

Sylus freezes, eyes locked on yours, like those three words shattered and rebuilt him in real time. And then he exhales, relieved.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Say it again,” he murmurs, almost afraid it was a fluke. A dream he’d blink and lose.

You smile, “I love you.” And this time it’s louder. Stronger.

“I love you too.”

He says it like a vow, a promise, then begins to pepper kisses across your face—each one a quiet apology for every day he went without touching you. Each one a reminder: I’m here. I’m back. I never stopped loving you.

You start to drift, the weight of the night settling into your bones, your body warm and sore and sated. Sleep tugs at you gently. But then Sylus nips playfully at your cheek, and his voice, low and teasing, curls against your ear. “Not yet, sweetie. Let me get you cleaned up.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “No, I’ll shower in the morning.”

But you don’t stop him when he pulls away, don’t open your eyes as he disappears briefly and returns with a warm cloth, gentle as ever. He moves with care, cleaning both of you in the quiet hush of the room.

When he’s done, you reach out, fingers circling his wrist like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t. “Don’t go,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “Stay here.”

Sylus leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, that soft smile tugging at his lips—the one he only ever wore for you. “Where else would I go,” he whispers, “if not here with you?”

He climbs back into bed and pulls you into his arms like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head, guiding you to rest against his chest. You breathe him in, his scent, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his heart under your ear—home, in every way that matters.

Sleep comes easy like that, safe in his arms, as if nothing could ever take him away again.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed, and your stomach dropped. For a second, it felt like none of it had happened. Like you'd imagined it all in some sleep deprived dream.

You thought you were going to have to call a therapist for psychosis.

But then you noticed the dent in the pillow beside you. The sheets were still messy, warm where he’d been. And then you heard it—the faint sound of something clinking in the kitchen.

He hadn’t left.

You lay back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, heart slowly steadying. He was still here. After everything, he was still here.

It was strange how easy it felt, slipping back into something that used to be second nature. The routine. The comfort. The quiet knowing that someone else was there. It didn’t feel forced or awkward.

It just was.

And maybe that said something. Maybe that was enough proof that this wasn’t a mistake. That loving each other had never been the problem. That the space between then and now hadn’t broken anything that couldn’t be fixed.

After one night, it was like everything was finding its place again.

You crawl out of bed and grab the shirt he left on the floor—It smells like him, that familiar mix of expensive cologne and soap that always lingered on your skin long after he was gone.

The apartment smells like coffee and something frying. You can already guess what it is. He never cooked with precision—just intention. Eggs were his go to, even if they were usually either barely set or borderline burnt. But he tried. He always did.

You pad quietly down the hallway and stop in the kitchen doorway. He doesn’t notice you right away—he’s too focused, standing at the stove with his back to you. Shirtless, muscles shifting with every little movement. He’s wearing those pajama pants. His pajama pants. The ones you stole and swore you’d thrown out during some emotional cleanse, only to find them months later shoved behind your laundry basket. You never brought yourself to toss them again.

They hang low on his hips now, like they never left.

You lean against the doorframe, just watching him for a second. Listening to the sound of him cook, the birds chirping with the morning sun outside, and the peaceful quiet that this life brought you.

It was home again.

“Like what you see?” Sylus says without turning around. You’re not sure how long he’s known you were standing there, but then again, he always knew. Could feel you without looking—like you were some extension of him, stitched into the same thread.

You walk up behind him and slip your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to the warm skin between his shoulder blades. “Maybe.”

He chuckles low in his chest, then reaches forward to turn off the stove. In one fluid motion, he spins in your hold, facing you. That smug grin is already there, the one you used to pretend annoyed you. His eyes sweep over you, stopping at the oversized shirt you’re swimming in.

You glance over at the table. The same old mugs. A bowl of fruit. Two plates—simple, a little uneven, but made with care.

“You didn’t have a lot to work with, kitten,” he adds, brushing a piece of hair from your face, “Someone hasn’t been buying groceries.”

You kiss his jaw, lazy and slow, still waking up. “Doesn’t matter. You showed up. That’s enough.”

“Then sit.”

You snort, let him guide you to the table, and as you sit, you watch him pour your coffee the way you like it—still remembering. Still yours.

You two sit in silence—soft, easy. The fruit’s a little mushy, the eggs slightly too done, but not enough to matter. Sylus sits across from you, half smiling, half watching.

‘This is it’, you think. ‘This is the life.’

You think, for a moment, that maybe you should ask him how he’s been. Catch up like normal people. Trade stories from the months apart—what he’s done, what he’s seen, what you missed between the snapshots friends posted with him barely in the frame.

But only one question makes it past the swirl in your chest.

“Sylus,” you say, folding your arms and leaning over the table, eyes narrowing. He mirrors you, brow lifting in challenge. “Yes?”

“How the hell did you get into my apartment?”

He laughs—loud and unbothered. He juts his chin toward the counter where, sure enough, a single key lies.

“I still have that,” he says, far too smug.

You gasp, lurching forward to swat his shoulder. “Why didn’t you give that back?”

“You never asked for it, sweetie.” He shrugs, leaning in like he’s telling a secret. “Besides… I figured it might come in handy one day.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm,” he hums, biting into a slice of melon. “And yet, here I am. Still your favorite bad decision.”

You scoff, sipping your coffee to cover your laugh. And maybe he is. Maybe he always has been.

But as you sit there with him, sunlight pouring in and the scent of overcooked eggs lingering in the air, it will never feel like a mistake at all.

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