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shaiyasstuff · 1 day ago

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romeo and cinderella | sylus

synopsis : He was romeo, and you were cinderella, not juliet.

content : highschool!au, angst/fluff, light/implied smut

writer’s note : inspired by my favourite vocaloid song romeo and cinderella (finished this on the flight xd)

“You better be home right after school, or else.”

Your mother’s voice echoes behind you as the screen door slams shut, a sharp final note to the morning’s lecture.

You swing your leg over your bike, muttering under your breath, “Yes, Mother,” though you know she’s probably already turned away, satisfied enough by the command, not the response.

You begin pedaling down the cracked sidewalk, the same route as every other morning.

Past the corner store with its faded awning, past Mrs. Tanaka watering her sunflowers.

Nothing ever changes here.

Not the way to school, not the way home, not the rhythm of your days.

You live a simple life—though calling it ‘yours’ might be generous. It’s a life curated by someone else, shaped by rules you never agreed to and expectations you never asked for.

You’re eighteen. Old enough to vote, drive, be trusted with futures and responsibilities.

But not old enough to stay out past seven. Not allowed to date, to fall in love, to bring friends over, or even choose your own clothes half the time.

It’s a cage dressed up as safety.

And you’ve lived in it long enough to memorize every shadow on the bars.

At school, you barely register your arrival. Your feet move on autopilot, locking your bike in place and weaving through the murmuring clusters of students.

You offer polite nods, a faint smile here and there. No one notices your mind isn’t really with you. No one ever does.

Classes pass in a blur of chalk dust and droning voices. You scribble down notes you won’t remember taking, your handwriting slanting with disinterest.

By the time the lunch bell rings, your body moves instinctively, your thoughts still elsewhere.

You make your way to your usual spot—the one place that still feels like yours.

Tucked behind the gym, nestled beneath a towering tree that blooms early and sheds late, it’s quiet, hidden. You’ve claimed this little slice of peace for as long as you can remember.

But today, someone’s already there.

You stop short.

Sprawled lazily beneath the tree’s shade is a boy you’ve never seen before.

Tall. Long legs stretched out like he owns the place. A mop of white, unkempt hair flops over his eyes.

He’s got his hands folded behind his head, earphones in, entirely at ease.

You hesitate, unsure. He’s in your space.

Clearing your throat, you step forward, hoping your presence might be enough to make him move.

He doesn’t notice you at first—not until you stand close enough to block the sun.

One eye cracks open, then the other, sharp and startled. He pulls out an earbud, brows knitting together.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is laced with irritation, edged like he’s the one being intruded upon.

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He sits up a little, smirking. “Go away. I’m trying to relax.”

You roll your eyes, not in the mood for games. “This is my spot.”

Before he can respond, you lower yourself onto the grass beside him and open your lunchbox, ignoring the way his gaze lingers.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the weight of his curiosity. Most students avoid him, you can tell. He’s probably used to being left alone.

Which makes your defiance all the more intriguing.

You take a quiet bite of your food, refusing to look at him. But in your peripheral vision, you can see him watching you—like he’s trying to figure out why you’re not scared, not flustered, not gone.

You take your third bite in silence, pretending not to notice the eyes still fixed on you.

But they don’t move. Not even once.

Annoyed, you finally turn to him, and it startles him enough to make him flinch—just slightly, like he didn’t expect to be caught.

“Why are you staring?” you ask, your tone sharper than you intended. Irritation prickles under your skin, but so does something else. A flicker of curiosity.

He blinks, processing the question for a beat too long before that crooked smile returns.

“You’re not running away,” he says, like it’s the most curious thing in the world.

You raise a brow. “Should people run from you?”

He shrugs, dropping his gaze to the grass as he reclines back onto his elbows. “People think I’m trouble.”

There’s no real emotion in his voice—just a statement, tossed out like it doesn’t matter. Like he’s used to it.

You chuckle under your breath. “I can see why.”

That gets his attention.

He sits up again, turning to face you more fully this time. “Really? You can see why?”

The sudden shift in his voice catches you off guard. It isn’t defensive. It isn’t smug.

For the briefest moment, something cracks in his expression—just a flicker—but enough for you to see it. The vulnerability beneath the bravado.

The way his sharp features don’t quite mask the tiredness in his eyes.

You blink. “I—I meant that as a joke,” you say quickly, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looks down for a moment, something unreadable crossing his face. Then, slowly, he meets your gaze again.

“I’m Sylus,” he says, extending a hand between you, palm open.

You stare at it for a moment, unsure why your heart gives a strange little stutter.

Then you slip your hand into his. His grip is warm, firm, and not quite what you expected.

“Y/N,” you say, softer than before.

And for the first time in a long time, it feels like something unfamiliar is growing in the quiet between you—not fear, not obedience. Just something… new.

The shrill cry of the school bell cuts through the quiet, startling a few birds from the branches above.

You sigh, glancing down at your half-eaten lunch with reluctant eyes.

Time always moves too quickly when you actually want it to slow down.

You push yourself to your feet and glance at Sylus, who’s still sprawled in the grass like the concept of responsibility doesn’t apply to him.

“Aren’t you going to class?” you ask, brushing crumbs from your skirt.

He stretches lazily, not even pretending to feel guilty. “Not really my kind of thing.”

You chuckle despite yourself, the sound escaping before you can stop it. He’s strange. Infuriatingly nonchalant. And yet… there’s something about him that tugs at your curiosity, something that makes you pause just a little longer.

“Then you can have my lunch,” you say casually, setting the box down on his lap.

He blinks, surprised, but before he can respond, you’re already standing, turning to leave.

“See ya,” you toss over your shoulder with a small wave, your voice light.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You don’t need to.

But if you had lingered a moment longer, you might’ve seen the way he sat up straighter, mouth parted in astonishment as he called after you—softly, almost like he didn’t mean to.

“Wait—”

But you’re already gone, swallowed by the hallway crowd, the echo of your presence lingering like sunlight after clouds.

Sylus stares at the empty space you left behind, then down at the lunch box still warm in his lap.

His fingers curl around it, and for some reason he can’t name, his chest tightens just a little.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he leans back again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Interesting,” he murmurs to no one in particular, and this time, the word tastes like a promise.

—•

You return home after school, the weight of the day pressing heavier on your shoulders than usual.

The front door creaks as you open it, and the moment you step inside, voices drift from the kitchen—sharp, angry, overlapping. Your parents. Again.

You pause in the hallway, listening for a beat. Same tone. Same fight. Different day.

With a sigh, you toe off your shoes and head straight for the stairs, not bothering to greet them. You know they wouldn’t notice if you did. You’re just a shadow in this house anyway—seen only when convenient.

Your room welcomes you like an old habit, quiet and familiar. You drop your bag by the door with a dull thud and collapse face-first into your bed.

The sheets are cool, and for a moment, you just breathe, hoping that if you lie still enough, the world might forget you exist.

But the yelling doesn’t stop.

Even through the walls and the floorboards, their voices seep in—accusations, bitterness, blame hurled like knives across countertops. You bury your head into your pillow, groaning softly.

It’s always like this. The noise. The pressure. The invisible weight of being stuck somewhere you don’t belong.

You close your eyes.

And for a fleeting second, you wish you could disappear.

Not forever.

Just long enough to breathe.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, trying to block out the sounds of your parents’ voices—each word another crack in a foundation already long crumbled.

But then, without meaning to, your thoughts begin to drift.

To him.

To Sylus.

You picture him beneath that tree, white hair catching the dappled light like strands of silk, that half-lidded gaze studying you with something between amusement and disbelief.

You didn’t even know him. Not really. And yet, his presence stuck to you like the scent of rain after a storm—faint, lingering, impossible to forget.

You remember the surprise in his eyes when you didn’t flinch. The flicker of something vulnerable he tried to mask behind smirks and sarcasm. And the way his voice had softened—just barely—when he said his name.

Sylus.

It rolls around in your mind, foreign but familiar, like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear.

You shift on your bed, hugging your pillow to your chest.

You weren’t supposed to care.

He was just a stranger. A boy who didn’t go to class and didn’t follow rules and didn’t care about things like fitting in.

And yet… when you handed him your lunch, when you turned your back and walked away, something in you felt lighter. Just a little.

Like someone had finally seen you.

And didn’t look away.

—•

Dinner passed in silence.

Not the peaceful kind—but the brittle, suffocating quiet that stretches too long and says too much without a word.

Your parents didn’t speak. Not to each other. Not to you.

They just sat at opposite ends of the table, chewing mechanically, eyes locked on their plates like looking anywhere else might reignite the fire.

The remnants of their earlier argument still hung in the air like smoke—unseen but heavy, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to every breath you took.

You ate quietly, each movement practiced, calculated.

You’d long since learned how to cut food without scraping the plate, how to set your chopsticks down without a sound.

Any noise could become an excuse. A trigger.

And tonight, the last thing you wanted was to become your mother’s outlet again.

So you focused on your food, on the silence, on being invisible.

And then, without warning, your thoughts slipped elsewhere.

To the shade of that tree. To a pair of unreadable, red eyes beneath a mess of white hair.

Sylus.

The name echoed softly in your mind, drawing the smallest smile to your lips—so faint it barely formed.

But it was there. A crack in the numbness.

Would he be there again tomorrow?

You didn’t know. He seemed like the kind of person who drifted through places like wind, never staying long enough to be caught.

But the thought of seeing him again—of hearing his voice, that low drawl half-laced with amusement—was enough to make your chest tighten, just a little.

You stared down at your half-finished plate, the tension in the room pressing in around you.

But for once, your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere he was.

After dinner, you escape back to your room without a word. No one notices. No one stops you.

You close the door behind you with a gentle click, shutting out the rest of the house—the cold air, the silence that somehow feels louder than shouting, the ghosts of conversations that never lead anywhere.

And then, without bothering to change, you sink into your bed.

The mattress greets you like a friend—soft, familiar, forgiving. You exhale slowly, the weight of the day bleeding out of your limbs as you melt into the covers.

Your face sinks into the pillow, and for the first time that day, your body feels like it belongs to you again.

Your thoughts drift—naturally, inevitably—to him.

To the boy with white hair and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much.

To that smirk of his—sharp, teasing, but not quite enough to hide the quiet behind it.

Sylus.

You didn’t know anything about him, not really. And yet he lingered in your mind like a whisper.

Something about him felt… different.

Like he existed just slightly outside the world you knew. Untouchable. Unapologetic. And for some reason, he hadn’t looked away.

You turn onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

Maybe he wouldn’t be there tomorrow. Maybe it had been a one-time thing.

But the last thought that flickers through your mind before sleep pulls you under is not a maybe.

It’s a hope.

That he will.

—•

The next morning came like it always did—same time, same routine.

But something was different.

Your steps felt lighter, like the air was just a little less heavy. Like your heart remembered how to float, if only for a little while. And you knew why.

Sylus.

Just thinking of him—his careless sprawl under the tree, the way he’d blinked at you in surprise, the unexpected softness behind his smirk—made something stir in your chest.

Something warm.

You smiled. Not the kind you wear when someone expects it. A real one.

And as you pedaled your way to school, wind brushing against your cheeks, you even waved to Mrs. Tanaka watering her sunflowers.

She blinked in surprise, then returned your greeting with a smile of her own.

Same sidewalk. Same cracked roads. Same school gate.

But everything felt just a little less gray.

You parked your bike, walked to class, slid into your seat. But this time, your mind wasn’t lost in thought—it was focused, waiting. Listening for that bell.

The hours dragged like molasses. You stared at the clock more times than you could count.

Your notebook remained mostly blank, your pencil tapping restlessly against the desk.

Every tick of the second hand felt like a lifetime.

And then—finally—the lunch bell rang.

Before your teacher could finish their sentence, you were up, books shoved into your bag in a clumsy blur.

You heard someone call your name, confused by your sudden burst of energy, but you didn’t slow down.

You’d never bolted out of class so fast in your life.

Because for the first time in a long time, you were going toward something.

Someone.

And you couldn’t help the way your heart raced just a little faster with every step.

You stepped onto the familiar patch of grass, the sun filtering through the leaves of the old tree, casting dancing shadows across the ground.

It was just as you remembered—quiet, tucked away, untouched.

Except… he wasn’t there.

Your heart sank a little harder than you wanted to admit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space beneath the tree.

Maybe he really was just passing through. A flicker in your routine, never meant to stay. You scolded yourself for getting your hopes up, but the sting of disappointment still pressed against your chest.

With a small sigh, you lowered yourself onto the grass, the silence pressing in around you again—but this time, it felt heavier.

Lonelier.

You pulled out your lunch box and set it in your lap, staring at it for a beat before opening it.

Your fingers hesitated at the lid. The food looked the same, but somehow the moment felt… emptier. Duller.

You were just about to take a bite when—

“You’re here again.”

The voice came from behind you—cool, casual, and unmistakably familiar.

Your breath caught.

You turned your head quickly, eyes wide. There he was, hands in his pockets, the ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sylus.

His white hair was a little messier than yesterday, like he’d slept through the first few periods—which, knowing him, he probably had.

But his eyes held a glint of amusement. And something else.

Relief.

“You’re late,” you said, voice softer than you expected, betraying the way your heart had leapt.

He shrugged, stepping forward, dropping lazily onto the grass beside you like he belonged there. “Had to make sure you’d actually show up.”

You tried not to smile—but it was hopeless.

You watch as he settles beside you, pulling a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers like it holds some grand meaning.

“What do you usually do in class?” you ask, curiosity slipping into your tone before you can catch it.

He glances at you sideways, as if debating whether to give you a real answer.

Then he shrugs. “Sleep. If not, sleep.”

You blink, then let out a laugh—quiet, but genuine. “Impressive. A man of great ambition.”

Sylus smirks, turning his head to face you more fully. “I get by.”

You shake your head with mock disapproval, though your lips are still tugging upward. “You know, most people come to school to learn.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

You raise a brow. “And what makes you so special?”

He leans back on his elbows, eyes flicking up toward the branches overhead. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You don’t reply right away, letting the silence stretch between you—not awkward, but comfortable, like the space under the tree was made to hold secrets too heavy for classrooms and dinner tables.

And even though you’re not sure what he’s hiding behind that smirk, for now, you’re just glad he’s here.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he says suddenly, arms slung over his knees, posture relaxed but eyes focused—really focused—on you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Like what?”

He shrugs, but there’s a weight behind the gesture, like he’s genuinely interested. “I don’t know. Something real. Something that isn’t ‘my favorite color is blue’ or ‘I like cats.’”

You pause, unsure where to begin. No one really asked you things like that. No one ever really cared to know.

“Okay,” you say slowly, picking at the edge of your lunch box.

“I… hate the sound of yelling. I memorize the floorboards that creak so I don’t step on them. I like quiet places. And I like the smell of rain.”

He hums softly, and you glance at him. His expression is unreadable—no teasing smirk, no snide remark. Just quiet attention.

“Rain smells like everything’s starting over,” you add, voice softer now. “Even if it never really does.”

There’s a moment of stillness. Then he leans back again, lying on the grass with one arm folded behind his head.

“That’s the kind of answer I wanted,” he murmurs, eyes half-closed.

You turn to him, watching the way sunlight filters through the leaves, painting dappled patterns across his face.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel seen.

Really seen.

You watch him for a moment longer, then tilt your head, curiosity tugging at your voice.

“What about you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze stays fixed on the canopy above, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks.

For a second, you think he didn’t hear you. But then he exhales through his nose—quiet, almost like a sigh.

“What about me?” he echoes.

You smile faintly. “Something real. Nothing about favorite colors or animals.”

Sylus is quiet again. Not in that dismissive, detached way you’ve seen before—but in a way that feels like he’s weighing something. Testing the edges of trust.

Then, finally. “I don’t like making promises.”

You blink. That’s not what you expected.

“I’ve seen what they do to people when they break,” he adds, voice low, almost like he’s not talking to you at all.

He glances at you then, just briefly. “So I don’t make them. I don’t like pretending I can protect something I might lose.”

You’re quiet, letting his words settle. There’s pain there—buried beneath the surface, guarded by sarcasm and smirks. But it’s real.

You don’t push. You just nod.

“Okay,” you say softly.

And somehow, that’s enough.

He shifts his gaze back to the sky, but there’s something different in the air now—like a thread pulled taut between you, fragile but undeniable.

The bell rings, its shrill cry slicing through the peaceful hush under the tree.

You sigh, already missing the silence, the strange comfort of his presence.

“Time to go,” you murmur, standing and brushing grass from your skirt. You’re about to turn away when you feel it—a gentle tug at your wrist.

You look down.

Sylus’s fingers are curled loosely around you, not tight, not demanding. Just enough to stop you.

You meet his eyes.

“See you again tomorrow,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. There’s no smirk this time. No sarcasm. Just something quiet and sure.

You feel your heart stutter, warmth spreading through your chest before you even know what to say.

You nod, unable to help the smile pulling at your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Tomorrow.”

And as you walk away, his touch still lingering on your skin, you don’t even realize you’re smiling the whole way back to class.

—•

It became a routine before you even realized it.

Each day, you’d wake to the same gray house, the same dull mornings, the same heavy silence at breakfast. But the air felt a little lighter now.

The walls didn’t press in as much. The arguments still happened, but they didn’t follow you as far. Because you had something else. Someone else.

Classes dragged, slower than ever—your eyes drifting to the clock, counting down until the bell would ring and you could escape.

Not from school, not from your life.

But to something.

To him.

Every day, he’d be there beneath the tree.

Sometimes already sprawled out with his earphones in, sometimes tossing pebbles or tearing at blades of grass, always waiting. Always staying.

And every day, you’d sit beside him like you belonged there. Because you did.

You learned little things about him—not all at once, but in fragments he let slip when he thought you weren’t paying too close attention.

His favorite season was autumn, because it felt like the world was quietly falling apart, and no one noticed.

He hated the cold, though. Said it reminded him of places he never wanted to go back to.

And once, when the light had turned especially soft through the trees, he’d said it out loud, “I wanna run away from here.”

You remembered the way he said it—not in a dramatic way, but like it was just a fact. A quiet truth he’d been holding for too long.

You had smiled at that. “Bring me along.”

And he’d glanced at you, surprised—but then his lips curled into the faintest smirk, and for a second, it looked like he was actually thinking about it.

Sometimes he’d hand you one of his earbuds without a word. You never asked what he was listening to—you didn’t need to. You just leaned in, shoulder brushing his, and let the music fill the space between you.

There was something inexplicably sweet about it.

The intimacy of sharing sound. Of hearing what he hears, just for a moment. It felt like being invited into a part of his world he didn’t show anyone else.

And slowly, gently, it stopped feeling like escape.

It started to feel like home.

Perhaps this was love, you thought to yourself.

Not the kind you saw in movies or read about in borrowed books.

Not loud declarations or roses at your doorstep. Not dramatic confessions in the rain.

This was quieter.

This was sitting beneath a tree, knees nearly touching, his music in your ear and the warmth of his presence beside you.

This was the way your heart stilled around him—not in fear, but in peace. The way his voice could cut through the noise in your head and leave behind something calm.

This was the way he listened. Really listened. Even when you talked about things that didn’t matter.

Even when your words trailed off. He stayed.

It was the way you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was memorizing you.

And maybe you were memorizing him too.

His sharp features softened in sunlight. The quiet rhythm of his breathing when he closed his eyes. The sound of his laugh when it came—rare, unguarded, and entirely real.

You never said it out loud.

Maybe you didn’t have to.

Because love, you were learning, didn’t always have to be declared.

Sometimes, it was felt.

In the way your heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again.

In the way the world stopped feeling like something to run from…

and started feeling like something you could share.

—•

You woke to the sound of something soft—barely there.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the moonlit darkness of your room.

For a moment, you thought you were dreaming. But then it came again. Gentle. Persistent.

Tap. Tap.

Groggy and confused, you slipped out of bed, the cool floor meeting your bare feet as you shuffled toward the window.

You pulled the curtain back—and nearly screamed.

Sylus.

His face was right there, peering in through the glass, silver hair glowing faintly under the pale moonlight. He wore that same smug smirk he always did when he knew he was getting a rise out of you.

You stared at him in disbelief, heart racing in your chest. His breath fogged the glass slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

You slid the window open with a hurried, startled whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He leaned casually against the frame, one hand gripping the edge, the other tucked in the pocket of his hoodie. “Thought I’d drop by,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You blinked. “So you climbed up to my window?”

“Would’ve knocked on your door,” he shrugged, “but your mom doesn’t seem like she’d take that well.”

You almost laughed—but the sound caught in your throat as you took in the sight of him.

Standing outside your window in the middle of the night like something out of a dream you weren’t supposed to have.

And yet, he was real.

Real, and here.

You glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting to hear footsteps down the hall. But the house was still. Silent.

With a sigh, you reached out and offered him your hand.

“Come on. Carefully,” you whispered, heart pounding in your chest as though it might give you away.

Sylus raised a brow, clearly enjoying himself. “Afraid of waking the beasts?”

You shot him a look. “Afraid of you falling and taking me down with you.”

He chuckled under his breath, then took your hand. His fingers were warm—rougher than you expected, but steady.

You stepped back, guiding him through the window as quietly as possible. His feet landed on the floor with barely a sound, though the thrill of it made your pulse race.

When he straightened, you were suddenly very aware of how close he stood.

Only a breath away.

His eyes flicked around your room—walls painted in soft tones, books stacked in uneven piles, a few pictures tacked on the corkboard above your desk. It wasn’t much, but it was yours.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just… looked.

“What?” you asked, trying to keep your voice low and steady.

“Nothing,” he said, though his voice had lost its usual edge. “Just… didn’t think this would suit you.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “You’re too big for this room.”

You blinked at him.

“It’s like putting a star in a shoebox,” he added with a smirk, stepping past you and collapsing onto your bed like he belonged there.

You stared at him for a second, heart still racing—not from fear, not even from the absurdity of it all—but from the way he looked so natural there.

Like he’d always been meant to be in this space.

In your space.

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grinned up at you, arms behind his head. “And yet, here I am.”

You sigh, shaking your head as you draw the curtains shut and switch on the small lamp on your desk. Its glow is dim, casting your room in a gentle amber light. Soft shadows stretch across the walls, and for a moment, it feels like time has slowed.

You turn back to him.

He’s not smirking anymore.

His eyes are on the ceiling, the faint creases in his brow more noticeable now that he’s not hiding behind sarcasm. He looks… tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but something deeper. Something old.

You sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to get too close.

“You okay?” you ask, the question barely a whisper.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Then:

“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “I get this feeling like I’m not really… here. Like I’m just walking through everything. Going through the motions.”

You glance at him. He’s still looking at the ceiling, but there’s something fragile in his voice. A crack beneath the surface.

“It’s not even about being bored. It’s more like…” He trails off, brow tightening.

“Like you don’t belong?” you finish for him, gently.

His eyes flick to yours. And this time, he doesn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he says. Just that. But it’s enough.

The silence stretches between you again, softer now. It doesn’t feel empty—it feels like understanding.

Like a shared ache neither of you fully know how to name.

You shift, your voice tender. “I feel that way all the time.”

He studies you for a beat longer, then exhales through his nose, something in his shoulders loosening.

“I don’t talk about this,” he admits, almost reluctantly. “Not with anyone.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

He turns his head toward you, his expression unreadable, but no longer guarded.

And in the hush of your dim-lit room, with only the moon beyond the window as witness, you feel the space between your bodies shrink—not in distance, but in silence.

You don’t reach for him. He doesn’t move toward you.

But something important shifts.

He came here to run from the world.

And instead, he found someone who stayed.

He’s still looking at you. The kind of look that feels like it’s peeling back layers.

You swallow. “My house… it’s not really a home.”

Sylus blinks, his expression shifting—still quiet, but more alert now. He doesn’t interrupt.

“My parents argue all the time,” you continue, voice low. “Sometimes it’s shouting. Sometimes it’s just silence. But it’s always heavy. Always there.”

He shifts, turning more toward you on the bed. “Is that why you eat so quietly?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I learned early on not to make noise. Not to draw attention. Especially when they’re angry.”

“Do they ever…” he hesitates, the words sticking. “Do they take it out on you?”

You pause. Then nod. “My mom does. Not always physically. But words can bruise just as much.”

His jaw tightens. He looks away for a second. “I know what that’s like.”

You glance at him, surprised.

He lets out a breath. “My dad used to yell. At my mom. At me. At nothing. I stopped listening at some point, but the noise… it sticks.”

There’s a silence that follows. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s a shared space now. A small pocket of honesty.

“Is that why you don’t like making promises?” you ask.

He meets your gaze again, this time without deflecting. “Yeah. I watched too many get broken.”

You nod slowly. “Me too.”

Another pause. Then, quietly,

“Sometimes I think about leaving,” you admit. “Just… packing up and going. Even if I don’t know where.”

He gives a soft smile. “Still want me to bring you along?”

You manage a small laugh. “If you’re offering.”

He nudges your knee with his. “Always.”

The quiet stretches again, but this time it’s warm. Safe.

He looks at you like he wants to say something more, but instead he just says, “Thanks… for telling me.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks for listening.”

And just like that, something delicate is built between you. Not loud. Not spoken with grand gestures. Just two people sharing the weight they’ve carried alone for too long.

And for once, it doesn’t feel quite as heavy

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, everything changed—without the world even noticing.

Every day, he was there beneath the tree, waiting. Like he always had been. Like he always would be.

You’d sit beside him, knees brushing, sharing lunch, music, thoughts neither of you dared to voice out loud anywhere else.

Your laughs came easier now. Your silences, more comfortable. The smirks he wore softened when he looked at you.

And your smiles—real ones—came without effort.

But it was the nights that changed everything.

Every night, just past midnight, there would be a soft tap at your window.

And every night, you’d let him in.

It became something sacred.

The hush of your room, the warmth of whispered words, the stolen hours under moonlight. You talked until you couldn’t keep your eyes open.

Some nights, you sat close enough to feel the press of his shoulder against yours.

Other nights, he’d lie beside you on the bed, quiet, eyes on the ceiling, your hands just barely touching between the sheets.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But it felt like something.

Something real.

That night, he was lying next to you again—one arm under his head, the other draped loosely across his stomach.

You were turned toward him, propped on your side, watching his profile in the soft lamplight.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He turned to you, eyes meeting yours. “Hmm?”

You hesitated for a second, heart beginning to thrum. “Can I tell you something kind of… embarrassing?”

His mouth curved slightly. “You? Embarrassed? Now I have to hear it.”

You smiled faintly, then lowered your gaze. “I’ve never dated anyone before.”

He blinked, surprised, but he didn’t speak.

You continued, quieter now. “Never kissed anyone either.”

There was a long pause.

And when you looked up, he wasn’t teasing you. There was no smirk. No snarky comment waiting to pounce.

Just him.

Present. Listening.

“Why?” he asked gently.

You shrugged. “My parents… they never let me. I was always too afraid to try. And I guess no one ever really looked at me that way either.”

He tilted his head. “They were blind.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard.

He held your gaze, voice soft but steady. “You’re… something else, you know that?”

Your throat tightened, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and the unfamiliar warmth curling in your chest.

You smiled, a little shakily. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m really not.”

And for a moment, in the stillness of your room, with the lamp casting its soft halo around the two of you, the world outside disappeared.

Just you.

And him.

And the space in between… getting smaller every night.

Your smile faded slowly, but the warmth he left behind remained—settled deep beneath your skin, in your chest, in the air between you.

He was still looking at you. Not just glancing. Looking. Like he could see right through to the quiet parts of you no one else had ever tried to find.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Have you?”

He blinked, eyes softening. “Have I what?”

“Kissed someone before.”

There was a pause. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

You swallowed, looking down for a second. “Was it… nice?”

“It wasn’t this,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted to his, and your breath caught.

He was close now. You hadn’t realized how close until your knees were touching again, until you could feel the faint warmth of his breath brushing your cheek.

“Can I—” he stopped himself, brows pulling together slightly.

You tilted your head, heart fluttering. “What?”

“I was going to ask if I could kiss you,” he murmured, voice low, raw with sincerity. “But I don’t want to ruin anything.”

“You won’t,” you whispered.

The distance between you was a thread now—thin, fragile, and pulling tighter with every heartbeat.

You could feel his hesitation—like he was waiting for you to change your mind, to pull away.

But you didn’t.

You leaned in first.

And when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t perfect. It was careful. Almost hesitant. Like he was afraid he might break something if he moved too quickly. But it was soft, and warm, and yours.

He pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours. His voice was breathless, barely there.

“Definitely not ruining anything.”

You smiled, eyes still closed, heart pounding.

And when he kissed you again—slower this time, more sure—you melted into it like you’d been waiting your whole life for this moment to happen.

Because maybe you had.

His lips lingered on yours for a breath longer before he pulled back, just enough to see you clearly. The soft glow from your bedside lamp caught the edges of his hair, and in the stillness of your room, you could hear everything—your heart, the silence, the hush between words.

Neither of you spoke at first.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was reverent. Like something fragile had bloomed between you, and neither of you dared to move too quickly and break it.

Your voice came out quiet, barely more than a breath. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Sylus looked at you, the smallest furrow forming between his brows.

You swallowed. “This. You. Being here.” Your gaze dropped to where your fingers were now tangled in the hem of his sleeve. “It’s like… a dream I don’t want to wake up from.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just watched you—listening, really listening.

You continued, voice thick with the ache you’d held back for too long. “This house, this life—I feel trapped in it. Like I’ve been holding my breath for years. And then you showed up and suddenly I could breathe again.”

A pause.

You met his eyes, the words trembling on your lips. “Save me from this.”

Something flickered across his face—like he felt those words in his bones.

He reached up, gently brushing his thumb along your cheek. “I can’t fix the world,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ll stay. As long as you want me to.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, not from sadness—but from the sheer relief of being seen, of being chosen.

“I want you to,” you whispered.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

And in the stillness of your room, wrapped in that soft, fragile promise, you leaned into him again—your forehead against his, your fingers curling into his hoodie like you were anchoring yourself.

The world outside could wait.

Because in this moment, in this little pocket of warmth and moonlight—you were safe.

You didn’t move at first—still caught in the feeling of his breath against yours, the weight of his promise lingering in the air.

But something had shifted.

The line had been crossed.

And you didn’t want to go back.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself in the warmth of him.

You pulled back just enough to see his face—how close it was, how soft his eyes had become.

“Can I ask you something?” you whispered.

“Anything.”

You searched his gaze, heart thudding. “What happens now?”

He blinked slowly, as if the question reached someplace deeper in him. “You tell me.”

“I want to know what this feels like,” you said, voice quieter now. “Really know. I’ve never… I don’t know what comes next. But I want to learn—with you.”

His breath caught.

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. “I want to feel what it’s like to be close to someone. To be touched like I matter.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something breaking open in his expression.

Then he moved, slowly—reaching out to brush his fingers along your jaw, down to your collarbone, so gently it made you shiver.

“Come here,” he murmured.

You leaned in as he guided you, one hand on your waist, the other at the back of your neck.

When his lips met yours again, it was different this time—deeper, more certain. You kissed him back, matching his pace, the ache in your chest melting into warmth.

His hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, resting against the bare skin of your waist.

He didn’t rush. His touch was exploratory, reverent. As though you were something delicate and sacred.

Your fingers found the edge of his hoodie, tugging gently, and he let you.

He pulled it off in one smooth motion, revealing the soft ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. You hesitated—your breath shaky as your hand pressed lightly against his chest.

He looked at you then, truly looked at you. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. “I want this.”

He leaned his forehead to yours. “Then I’m yours. However you want me.”

The way he said it—so honest, so completely unguarded—made your chest ache.

You kissed him again, letting your hands explore, touch, memorize. His kisses moved to your neck, your shoulder, each one slower than the last.

His fingers slid under your shirt, lifting it with a question in his eyes.

You answered with a quiet nod, helping him pull it off.

And in the hush of your dimly lit room, the two of you moved carefully. Not rushed. Not frantic. But slow and deliberate, like every touch meant something—because it did.

You traced his skin like it was the first time you’d ever been allowed to feel, and he kissed you like he was trying to give you back every piece of yourself you’d ever been made to hide.

When you finally lay pressed against him, chest to chest, limbs tangled beneath the covers, your body was buzzing—but your heart was still.

He held you like he was afraid to let go. And you clung to him like you finally had something worth holding on to.

In his arms, nothing else existed. Not the silence downstairs. Not the bruises your mother’s words left. Not the life you felt trapped inside.

Only this.

Only him.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel like a ghost in your own skin.

You felt real.

Wanted.

Loved.

But fate, cruel and untimely, had other plans.

—•

The next morning, you woke to sunlight cutting through the curtains, warm on your skin, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him.

You were still glowing from the night before—heart full, limbs heavy with a kind of peace you’d never known.

You got ready for school humming softly, the memory of his hands, his breath, his voice still lingering on your skin like a secret no one could take from you.

You slipped on your shoes, lunchbox in hand, already imagining the way he’d be waiting under the tree again. How you’d sit close.

How your smile would mean something different now.

But just as you reached for the doorknob—

“Stop.”

Your mother’s voice cut through the morning like ice.

You turned slowly.

Both your parents stood in the hallway. Stiff. Still. Like they’d been waiting.

Your heart stuttered. “I—I’m going to school—”

“Sit down,” your father said, voice quiet. Too quiet.

You stood frozen. The warmth from earlier drained slowly from your chest, replaced by the cold ache of instinctual dread.

Your mother folded her arms. Her gaze sharp. Knowing. “Who was in your room last night?”

Your blood went cold.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“Don’t lie,” she snapped. “We heard voices. We know someone was there.”

You took a shaky breath, gripping the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to something real. “No one. It was just me. I—I was on the phone—”

“Don’t insult our intelligence,” your father said flatly.

“Do you know how dangerous that is? Letting someone into this house? Into your room?” your mother hissed, fury barely held behind her teeth. “What kind of girl sneaks boys in through windows?”

The words hit like slaps. Each one sharper than the last.

You flinched. “He’s not—he’s not just—”

“You’re not going anywhere today,” your father cut in. “Not until we figure out how to keep this from happening again.”

Your chest tightened. “You can’t—”

“We can. And we will.”

It felt like the walls closed in. Like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Just hours ago, you had been pressed against Sylus, whispering that this—he—felt like a dream.

Now, reality had come crashing through the window, ruthless and loud.

And you were trapped again.

Not behind locks.

But behind the bars of control, guilt, shame.

Your hand fell from the doorknob.

And as you stared down at the floor, all you could think about was his face.

Waiting under the tree.

Wondering why you never came.

—•

You sat in your room, the door shut tight behind you. Not locked—but it didn’t have to be. The threat hung in the air like smoke.

One wrong move, and everything you’d found could be taken from you.

Your lunchbox sat untouched on the desk.

The hours dragged like weights tied to your ankles, and all you could do was stare at the wall, counting the seconds between your parents’ footsteps outside.

He was out there.

Waiting.

Under the tree.

And you weren’t coming.

Your heart ached at the thought—at the image of him sitting alone, music in one ear, head tilted like he was listening for something. Listening for you.

You wished he’d come.

Not like in stories with white horses and grand speeches. You didn’t need saving in a way that looked perfect. You just wanted him.

Wanted to open your window and see his face again, hear his voice telling you it was okay, feel his hand reach out and pull you back into something that felt like yours.

“Come save me,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Like Romeo.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you shook your head.

No.

You weren’t Juliet.

You weren’t going to die for love, or weep behind a locked door, or let anyone write your ending for you.

If anything—you were Cinderella.

And when the clock struck twelve, you hadn’t turned into something smaller.

You’d woken up.

You hadn’t left behind a slipper.

You’d left behind fear.

You stood from your bed slowly, crossing the room to your window.

You drew the curtain back, heart pounding with hope that was almost painful.

But the street was empty.

No tapping at the glass. No smirk. No silver hair in the wind.

You stayed by the window, heart pressed against the silence. The street below was empty, washed pale in morning light—but in your mind, he was still there.

Waiting.

Still and steady beneath the tree, earphones in, pretending not to care, but glancing up every few minutes to search for you. Just in case.

The thought made your chest ache.

You moved before fear could stop you—crossed the room, pulled open your desk drawer, and grabbed a sheet of paper.

Your hands trembled as you picked up your pen. You didn’t know what to say at first, not exactly. But the words came anyway.

Slow. Honest.

Sylus,

I’m sorry I wasn’t there today.

They found out. About you. About us.

I’m not allowed to leave the house for now. I don’t know how long they’ll keep me in here.

But I need you to know something—

Your pen paused. Your breath caught.

Then you wrote, carefully, deliberately:

I know you aren’t fond of promises,

but would you promise to be my Romeo?

You stared at the words.

Not because you needed a savior. Not because you were waiting for someone to rescue you.

But because if there was anyone in the world who could understand what it meant to run, to fight, to choose someone even when everything was stacked against you—it was him.

Wait for me, you added, smaller now. I’ll find a way back.

You folded the note carefully, pressing your thumb into each crease like sealing a vow. Then you tucked it into your schoolbag, heart pounding.

Later, when the house fell into its afternoon hush—your mother in the kitchen, your father on the phone—you slipped down the hall, eased open the front door, and slipped out barefoot, just long enough to run.

The school wasn’t far.

You knew every step of the path like a song.

No one saw you.

You reached his locker, breathless, heart in your throat, and tucked the note inside—right at the edge, where he’d see it the moment he opened it.

Then you turned and ran back home, lungs burning, adrenaline singing through your veins.

You weren’t Juliet. You weren’t waiting to die for love.

But maybe, just maybe, he’d still be your Romeo.

They found out.

You weren’t sure how—maybe a creak in the floor, maybe they noticed the front door slightly ajar, or maybe they just knew the way only people bent on control can.

But this time, they didn’t just yell.

They locked the door.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.

Physically.

The sound of the key turning in the lock still echoed in your ears, colder than anything your mother had ever said.

“You don’t leave this room,” she snapped through the door. “Not until you learn to behave.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t give them the satisfaction. You just sat on your bed, knees pulled to your chest, and waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade.

The air was thick, suffocating. The walls pressed in, closer with every hour.

But what hurt most wasn’t the lock. It was the distance.

You didn’t know if he’d gotten the note. If he understood. If he thought you’d just disappeared.

So you waited.

Every night, when the house finally fell into that deep, still quiet, you crept to the balcony.

The wind was colder now, but you didn’t care. You wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, sat with your knees drawn up beneath you, and looked out into the night.

You didn’t cry.

You prayed.

Please come.

Not as a prince. Not on a horse. Just as him.

With that silver hair and that crooked smirk and those eyes that somehow made you feel whole.

Every gust of wind had your heart leaping. Every shifting shadow on the street below pulled your breath tight. You waited. Night after night.

And each night you whispered it softly into the dark,

“Be my Romeo.”

Not because you needed rescue.

But because you needed him to find you.

Because you weren’t running this time.

You were trapped.

And you had never wanted freedom more.

—•

A week passed.

Seven days.

Seven endless days of silence.

Of being locked in. Of unanswered prayers whispered from your balcony into a wind that never carried them far enough.

You hadn’t seen him. You hadn’t heard from him.

Not even a glimpse through the shadows, no pebble at your window, no tapping on glass like before.

And yet, you waited.

Each night, you curled up by the door or sat out on the balcony in the cold, eyes scanning the street until they blurred, hoping—aching—for him.

Sylus… where are you?

The silence gave your thoughts too much space to wander. And they always came back to that moment—one so soft, so silly at the time, but now carved into you like a memory worth bleeding for.

You were both lying in the grass, sunlight scattered through the leaves overhead.

He’d just scoffed at something in his playlist—an old track from a childhood movie you’d convinced him to listen to.

“Fairytales are stupid,” he’d muttered.

You’d sat up instantly, jabbing a finger into his chest with faux offense. “Take that back.”

He laughed. “Seriously? Happy endings, magic love, royalty running off with peasants… it’s all fake.”

You jabbed him again, harder this time. “Then I guess I’m stupid too. Because I believe in all of it.”

He’d raised a brow, amused. “You think you’re some kind of princess?”

You’d grinned wide, proud and unwavering.

“I’m Cinderella. And you—” you pointed at him dramatically, “—are my Romeo.”

He’d stared at you then, just for a second, something unreadable softening the edges of his usual smirk.

“That so?” he murmured.

You’d nodded with all the certainty in the world. “Even if you hate fairytales, you’re in mine.”

He hadn’t said anything after that.

He didn’t have to.

And now, a week later, locked away in a house that had never felt more like a prison, you curled into yourself and whispered the words again like a prayer.

“Even if you hate fairytales… you’re in mine.”

And you could only hope—wherever he was, whatever had kept him from you—that he remembered.

Because you were still here.

Waiting.

You sat curled on the cold floor, your cheek resting against the edge of your bed.

The blanket around your shoulders had long since slipped off, and your fingers had stopped shaking hours ago.

Everything felt quiet.

Too quiet.

You weren’t sure when the nights had begun to blur, or how many times you’d stared at that empty street, whispering his name like it might summon him.

You didn’t know how much longer you could keep holding on to nothing but memory and hope.

And then—

Tap.

You froze.

Your breath caught.

You thought you imagined it.

Tap. Tap.

This time louder.

Your heart lurched violently.

You stumbled to your feet, legs half-asleep beneath you, and rushed to the balcony, hands fumbling against the door.

You flung it open and stepped out into the night air, lungs burning with disbelief.

And there he was.

Sylus.

Leaning against the tree across the street, hood up, hands in his pockets, head tilted up toward your window. Like he’d been waiting for you to come out and see him.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

You gripped the railing, eyes wide, breath trembling.

He stepped forward.

“I got your note,” he said, voice quiet—but it carried.

Your eyes blurred with sudden tears, your knees weak from relief, from joy, from all the emotions you had buried in silence.

“You came,” you whispered.

He gave a faint smirk, but it didn’t hold the usual teasing edge. It was soft. Tired. But real.

“You asked me to be your Romeo,” he said. “Took me a little while… but I’m here.”

You laughed—a breathless, broken sound—and covered your mouth with both hands.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing faintly under the streetlamp. “Are you ready to run, Cinderella?”

And suddenly, the lock on your door, the house behind you, the world that had caged you in for years—it all meant nothing.

Because your fairytale had come back for you.

And this time, you were going.

You stood there, frozen on the balcony, heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it from the street. The cold bit at your bare feet, the railing digging into your palms as you gripped it tightly—but none of it mattered.

Because he was there.

Looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that existed.

Sylus took another step forward, into the pool of light cast by the streetlamp.

He pulled down his hood, silver hair catching the glow, eyes locked with yours—steady, sure, unshaken.

Then he lifted his arms.

“Jump.”

Your breath caught.

“What?” you whispered.

His mouth tugged into a faint, familiar smirk, but his voice was nothing but steady. “You said you were Cinderella, didn’t you?”

His eyes softened, shining with something quiet and unspoken. “Then run from the clock. Run from the cage. Just run to me.”

Your fingers gripped the railing tighter. The drop wasn’t far—but it felt like more than height.

It was leaving everything.