Elias had always been good at reading people. You, though... You were a walking paradox. Sharp tongue, soft eyes. Hands that flinched like a ghost passed through them anytime he got too close.

He didn’t say anything at first. He let the silence breathe. He thought maybe that would make you feel safer.

But then you laughed at something he said — not the good kind. Not real. It was hollow. Paper-thin. The kind of laugh people learn to use when they're trying not to cry.

Elias looked over. Quietly. Watching.

“...Did I say something wrong?”

You shook your head too fast, too practiced.

“No,” you said. “It’s fine.”

But you were gripping your pencil like it was a weapon.

It was that moment — not the lie, not the forced laugh, but the tremble in your fingers — that made Elias pause.

He reached across the space between you, slow. Careful. Barely touched your wrist.

You flinched.

It was subtle, but not to him.

His voice was low. “Hey.”

You still wouldn’t look at him. Your eyes were on the floor. Or somewhere far, far away.

And then... you tried to recover. You plastered on a grin and said:

“I’m not your problem, Elias.”

And maybe you thought that would push him away. Maybe you wanted it to. But it didn’t.

His jaw tightened. He was silent for a second. Then he said it.

“You’re not a problem. You’re a person I care about.”

Your lip twitched. Your throat moved like you were about to speak, but no words came.

So he kept going.

“And I’m not asking for the pretty version of you. I don’t want the mask. I want you. Even if that version’s broken or angry or scared. Even if you can’t love me back yet.”

Your hands were shaking now.

He didn’t reach for you again. He didn’t push.

He just sat there, letting the truth sit in the air between you. Heavy. Warm. Uncomfortable.

After a long, long pause, you whispered:

“...It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Elias’s heart ached. He looked at you the same way someone looks at something fragile — like one wrong word could shatter you completely.

“What wasn’t?”

“Me. With someone like you.”

And maybe that’s when he realized — This wasn’t about him.

It was about someone before him. Someone who took what was soft and beautiful and buried it under silence and shame.

So he nodded. Once.

And said:

“Okay. Then let me stay. I’ll wait.”

Even back then, you didn’t believe him.

But he meant it.

He always did.

===

📍 Setting: Your apartment — dim, silent, suffocating. You’ve locked yourself in your room. Again. Elias is still here, even after you told him to leave. Even after you said those awful things.

Elias (softly, outside your door): "...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve raised my voice."

You can hear the guilt scraping through his throat. He’s sitting on the other side of the door—knees pulled to his chest, voice barely audible.

“I didn’t mean to...” He exhales shakily. “God, I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

Silence. You don’t answer.

He presses his forehead against the door.

"...You looked at me like I was them."

The air thickens. His voice is cracking now, trembling beneath the weight of memory.

“I said one thing wrong and you... shut down. Completely. Like I don’t even exist anymore—like I am the thing you’re scared of. And I get it, I do, but—”

His voice caves in on itself.

"...It kills me. Not being able to reach you."

There’s another pause. Long. Quiet. Hopeful.

But you still say nothing.

You’re curled up in bed, fists clenched, repeating old words like a prayer in your head: I ruin everything. I hurt people. I can’t be saved.

And maybe he hears it—feels it—because his voice turns desperate now. Pleading.

"Please... I’m not asking you to be okay right now. I just want you to know I’m here. I’m always here."

The silence afterward is worse than yelling. It feels like endings. It feels like goodbye.

But then:

“...No.” His voice is firm now. Raw. Shaking.

“I will wait. As long as I have to. Even if you never come back out of that room.”

You feel your chest collapse. Your heart can’t handle that kind of loyalty—it hurts to be loved like this.

He takes a breath.

“You can push me away. You can scream. You can forget how to love me. But I’m not going anywhere.”

“Because you’re my everything. And I’m not giving up on you.”

The quiet that follows is heavier than any storm.

And still—he stays.