Akimnoma

Every morning before lessons began, you somehow already had a cup waiting on Qifrey's desk before he even realized he wanted one. You knew exactly how long he liked the leaves steeped, knew he preferred it just warm enough to drink immediately, knew that after difficult lessons he favored sweeter blends. It wasn't intentional at first—just little observations collected over months of living together in the atelier—but somewhere along the way it became a ritual. You liked seeing his expression soften when he found it there. You liked the sleepy smile he gave you and the quiet "thank you" before taking a sip. The problem was that Qifrey accepted every act of devotion with the same calm gratitude he accepted sunshine or fresh air, as though he never once considered there might be a heart attached to it. Meanwhile Coco had started watching the exchange every morning with increasing concern. "You are literally courting him," she whispered one day. "Am I?" you whispered back. Across the room, Qifrey drank the tea and smiled, blissfully unaware. Or so you thought.

The second sign should have been the list. It started as a joke after Tetia caught you staring at Qifrey for almost an entire lesson. Soon all the girls were contributing. Number three: you always sat beside him at meals. Number seven: you somehow noticed when he needed new gloves before he did. Number twelve: whenever Qifrey entered a room, your eyes found him within seconds. Number twenty-one: you remembered every story he'd ever told you. Number thirty-eight: your handwriting became noticeably neater whenever you were leaving notes for him. By the end of the month the list had grown absurdly long. Coco swore it was evidence. Tetia called it romantic. Agott called it embarrassing. Richeh thought it was fascinating. The only person not consulted was Qifrey himself, who continued existing in complete ignorance while carrying around gifts, snacks, and handmade charms that practically screamed I adore you.

The third sign happened during a supply trip. The two of you spent the afternoon gathering magical herbs in a valley where tiny floating lights drifted between the flowers like stars. You couldn't help watching him while he worked. Qifrey moved through the field with effortless grace, sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching in his hair, completely absorbed in explaining the properties of a rare blossom. You listened to almost none of the explanation because your attention was trapped on the way he smiled when he got excited. At one point he turned suddenly and found you staring. Your face burned. Your heart stopped. Surely now he would realize. Surely now. Instead he simply smiled and said, "You always listen so carefully." The worst part was that he sounded genuinely touched. You almost walked into a bush.

The fourth sign was physical contact—or rather your repeated failed attempts at it. Not dramatic gestures. Tiny things. Brushing shoulders while walking. Sitting close enough for your knees to touch during long evenings. Straightening his collar when it sat crooked. Dusting chalk from his sleeve after lessons. Every touch left your heart racing for hours. Qifrey never pulled away. Never seemed uncomfortable. In fact, he often leaned into it unconsciously, trusting and relaxed. That somehow made it worse. One evening you reached out to fix a strand of hair that had fallen across his face and froze halfway there. Qifrey simply looked at you expectantly. "Something wrong?" he asked. You nearly screamed.

The fifth sign arrived during a festival. Lanterns floated above the academy grounds like tiny moons while spells painted ribbons of color across the sky. Crowds gathered to watch enchanted fireworks bloom overhead. Somewhere during the celebration you found yourself standing beside Qifrey. The light from the fireworks reflected in his eyes, and for one dangerous moment he looked less like a famous witch and more like a man standing very close to you. The crowd shifted. Your hand brushed his. Then, gathering every scrap of courage you possessed, you let your fingers linger. Qifrey looked down. Then he looked at you. The world seemed to stop. His expression softened into something unreadable before he quietly intertwined your fingers for a brief second to keep you steady in the crowd. Then he let go. You spent the rest of the night convinced you were going to die from confusion.

The sixth sign should have been impossible to misunderstand because by then you had completely stopped hiding it. You complimented him constantly. Not his magic. Him. The way he cared for the girls. The way he listened when people spoke. The way he could make difficult things feel manageable simply by standing beside someone. Sometimes you caught him staring at you afterward with an odd look in his eyes. Hope would flare inside your chest. Maybe this was it. Maybe he finally understood. Then he'd smile and thank you, and the moment would vanish. The girls had reached the point where they openly discussed your feelings in front of him because they were convinced subtlety was wasted. Qifrey somehow remained silent through all of it.

The seventh sign was the realization that what you felt wasn't a crush anymore. It happened gradually. In quiet evenings spent reading together. In mornings when he absentmindedly asked if you'd slept well. In the way he always saved a seat for you without thinking. Loving Qifrey wasn't dramatic. It was domestic. It was finding comfort in shared silence. It was knowing how he took his tea and where he misplaced his books and what expression he made when he was trying not to laugh. It was wanting to be there on ordinary days as much as extraordinary ones. Somewhere along the way you stopped imagining grand confessions and started imagining years. That realization terrified you more than anything else.

The eighth sign ended in disaster. It was late, the atelier quiet except for the sound of rain against the windows. You and Qifrey were alone, working side by side. You had spent months dropping hints. Months hoping. Months convincing yourself he didn't feel the same. The words escaped before you could stop them. "I like you." The room went silent. Qifrey looked up from his work. You immediately wanted to throw yourself into the nearest magical portal. "Romantically," you added miserably when he failed to respond. "In case that wasn't clear." His eyes widened. For a moment neither of you moved.

The ninth sign was his laugh. Not mocking. Not surprised. Relieved. Genuinely, deeply relieved. "I've been waiting for that," he admitted, and your brain stopped functioning entirely. Waiting. The word echoed through your skull. Waiting? For what? For you, apparently. While you stared at him in horror, Qifrey confessed that he'd known for months. Maybe longer. He knew about the tea. The gifts. The staring. The attempts at hand-holding. He knew about all of it. Every single painfully obvious sign. "Then why didn't you say anything?" you demanded, feeling personally betrayed. To your astonishment, Qifrey actually looked embarrassed. A faint blush spread across his face. "Because I wanted to hear you say it."

The final sign was the way he looked at you afterward. All at once the puzzle pieces fit together. Every lingering glance. Every moment his attention seemed to settle on you a little longer than necessary. Every small kindness that had felt suspiciously personal. Qifrey stepped closer and took your hand, not by accident this time, not because of a crowd or an excuse or a passing moment. Deliberately. His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "I like you too," he said softly, and for once there was no mystery hidden behind the words. Just certainty. Outside, enchanted rain shimmered silver beneath the moonlight. Inside, surrounded by books, tea cups, and all the ordinary pieces of the life you'd built together, you realized that the magic had never been in the confession. It had been in every small moment leading up to it. Qifrey had known all along. And perhaps the cruelest thing about him was that he'd wanted to hear you say it anyway.

There was no fight, no betrayal, no terrible revelation. There was only Qifrey, sitting beside you night after night, becoming harder and harder to reach. The strange thing was that he never stopped loving you. If anything, it seemed to get worse. You would catch him looking at you across a room with an expression so soft it made your chest ache. He still remembered everything you told him. He still brought you things that reminded him of you. He still reached for you in his sleep. But whenever you tried to reach beyond that, whenever you tried to ask what was happening inside his head, something in him closed. "What's wrong?" you would ask. He would open his mouth. Pause. Look frustrated. "Nothing." And it was obvious that wasn't true. The problem wasn't that he was lying very well. The problem was that after a while you realized he wasn't lying at all. He genuinely could not tell you. Whatever lived inside him existed in a place even he couldn't seem to navigate. Every attempt ended the same way. A furrow between his brows. His fingers twisting together. Silence stretching longer and longer until it became embarrassing for both of you. Then, eventually, a quiet, defeated, "I don't know how to explain it."

The first time you cried because of it, he looked horrified. Not defensive. Not angry. Horrified. As though your tears were proof of some failure he had been trying desperately to prevent. You remembered sitting at the table while he stood frozen across from you. Neither of you speaking. The room felt unbearably small. "I'm trying," he said eventually. His voice sounded strained. "I know." "No." He shook his head. "I don't think you do." You watched him struggle for words, watched him visibly search for them. "I know something's wrong. I know you're asking because you care. I know I should be able to tell you. But every time I try, it feels like..." He stopped. His jaw tightened. You waited. Seconds passed. Then he looked away. "Forget it." Something inside you broke. Not because he refused to continue. Because he couldn't. Because you had watched him try and fail right in front of you.

After that, every conversation felt haunted by all the conversations you never managed to have. There were so many unfinished thoughts between you that sometimes it felt difficult to breathe around him. You would ask a question and see panic flash across his face before he buried it. Not fear of you. Fear of disappointing you. Fear of failing again. Fear of reaching for words and finding nothing. The worst part was that he knew he was hurting you. You could see it every time your smile slipped or your voice grew tired. He noticed everything. That was what made it unbearable. He saw your loneliness. He saw your frustration. He saw the growing distance. And because he saw it, he suffered too. The guilt settled into him like a sickness. Sometimes you would wake during the night and find him staring at the ceiling. Sometimes you would find him sitting alone outside long after everyone else had gone to bed. He always claimed he couldn't sleep. You stopped asking why.

One night you finally asked the question that had been living inside your chest for months. "Do you trust me?" The words came out quieter than you intended. Qifrey immediately looked up. For a moment he seemed confused. Then hurt. Deeply hurt. "Of course I do." "Then why do I feel so alone?" The silence that followed was devastating. You saw the answer arrive on his face before he spoke it. Not because he disagreed. Because he didn't. Because he knew exactly what you meant. His eyes lowered. His shoulders slumped. He looked exhausted. More exhausted than you had ever seen him. "I don't know." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's always your answer." The instant the words left your mouth, regret followed. Qifrey flinched. It was small. Most people wouldn't have noticed. You did. You always did. He stared down at his hands and whispered, "I know."

You wanted to take it back. You wanted to tell him you understood. But suddenly you were angry. Angry at the silence. Angry at the helplessness. Angry at how much you loved someone who seemed incapable of letting you stand beside him when things became difficult. "Then say something," you said. "Anything." His breathing grew uneven. You watched him try. You genuinely watched him try. His lips parted. Closed. Opened again. Tears gathered in his eyes so quickly it startled you. "I can't." His voice cracked. "I know there are things I should tell you. I know there are things you're waiting to hear. Every day I wake up and think I'll say them. Every day I try. And every day it feels impossible." A tear slid down his face. Then another. "And the longer I wait, the worse it gets. The more it hurts you. The more ashamed I feel. Then suddenly I have to explain all of that too, and I can't." He laughed once, a miserable sound. "I can't even explain why I can't explain it."

You had never seen him look so defeated. It wasn't stubbornness. It wasn't secrecy. It wasn't a lack of love. It was as though he had built walls around himself so long ago that he no longer knew where the doors were. And now both of you were trapped on opposite sides of them. You moved closer. You took his hand. He immediately started crying harder. Not because he wanted you to let go. Because he didn't understand why you were still there. You could see it in his face. The confusion. The guilt. The grief. As though every day he expected you to finally decide that loving him wasn't worth this kind of pain. He squeezed your hand so tightly it almost hurt. "I'm sorry," he whispered. You closed your eyes. Those words were somehow worse than silence. Because apologies didn't fix anything. They didn't make you feel closer. They didn't make him easier to understand. They only proved he knew how much damage had already been done.

And the cruelest part was that neither of you stopped loving the other. The loneliness grew. The hurt grew. The resentment appeared and disappeared and appeared again. But the love remained. It sat stubbornly in the middle of everything, refusing to die. Some days that felt comforting. Most days it felt tragic. Because if love had been the problem, there would have been a solution. Instead, you loved each other completely and still found yourselves sitting across from one another, separated by things neither of you knew how to say.

'In some emotional context, humans tend to avoid conversations or actions, estimating it would only make things awkward, or worse. Only one word would describe their new behaviour: avoidance. In most cases, that very avoidance will lead to an ache they haven't anticipated at all, one that will slowly grow each passing day without taking care of it.

One day, the rope will snap by itself.

In the worst case, it only remains as thread as long as neither cut it themselves.'

No explanation for that one lmao, hope you enjoyed it. Your writing was sooo good about this it made the paragraph pop in my head, now I'm giving it to you 🫴✨

Not in the ordinary way people noticed things—he didn't just realize when someone was sad or tired or hungry. Qifrey observed people the same way a scholar studied ancient magic circles, piecing together tiny details into complete pictures. So it became painfully obvious, painfully early, that he noticed you. He noticed the way you drifted half a step away whenever someone brushed your shoulder in crowded markets. He noticed your hands curling tightly into your sleeves whenever Agott linked arms with Coco and tried to drag everyone around. He noticed how your eyes darted, just for a fraction of a second, whenever someone reached toward you unexpectedly. And because Qifrey was Qifrey, he never pointed it out. He simply adjusted himself around you as naturally as water flowing around stone.

The two of you had not intended to become anything. At least, you certainly hadn't. Qifrey had a habit of collecting people; students, strays, broken things, lonely things—and somehow you had found yourself orbiting his workshop more and more often. You'd help sort books or organize spell diagrams while he worked. Sometimes he’d speak with ridiculous theatrical flair, draping himself dramatically over chairs and complaining about paperwork as if it were a mortal curse. Other times he would go quiet, sunlight catching in his pale hair while he focused on drawing circles with such intense concentration that he looked like a different person entirely. You grew addicted to those shifts. To the softness beneath his charm. To the strange warmth of being understood without needing to explain yourself. Which was dangerous, because Qifrey looked at people like he could see every hidden fracture in them—and somehow made you feel less afraid of being cracked.

You realized you were in trouble one evening when the children had gone to sleep and rain tapped gently against the workshop windows. You sat on the floor surrounded by books while Qifrey sat beside you, reading something absurdly ancient and complicated. There had been no conversation for almost twenty minutes. No pressure to speak. No expectation. Just quiet. Then you glanced up and found him already looking at you over the edge of his book. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just staring with a softness so startling it felt like your heart tripped over itself. “You know,” he said lightly, “I think you're becoming difficult.” You blinked. “Difficult?” “Mm.” He tilted his head. “I find myself wondering where you are when you're gone.” Silence. Then: “It's very inconvenient.”

When your relationship actually started, it wasn't romantic in the way stories described. There was no sweeping confession beneath stars. No dramatic kiss. Qifrey simply sat beside you outside one morning while you watched clouds drift overhead and asked, “Would you hate it if I stayed beside you like this for a very long time?” You stared at him because what kind of question was that? And when you looked over, expecting his usual playful expression, he looked almost nervous. Qifrey. Nervous. You remembered thinking the world had briefly tilted sideways. “...No,” you answered quietly. “I don't think I'd hate that.” And his smile afterward was so bright and genuine it felt unfair.

The issue appeared almost immediately after that. Not because Qifrey crossed boundaries, he didn't, but because relationships seemed to come with invisible expectations attached. Hands finding hands. Casual touches. Leaning against shoulders. You tried not to think about it at first. Tried to ignore the twisting feeling in your chest whenever you imagined disappointing him. But Qifrey noticed. Of course he noticed. One afternoon he reached absentmindedly toward your arm while laughing at something Coco said, and you flinched so hard it looked as though you'd narrowly avoided being struck. The movement froze both of you. The room suddenly felt terribly quiet. Qifrey slowly lowered his hand. Not hurt. Not angry. Just watching you carefully.

Later, after everyone had gone inside, he found you sitting outside near the garden fence. You expected questions. Maybe concern. Instead, Qifrey sat down several feet away—not beside you, not close enough to crowd you. Just near enough. “Can I ask something?” he said softly. You nodded. He looked toward the sky rather than at you. “When people touch you...” A pause. “Does it frighten you?” The question sat there between you. Not why are you like this? Not what happened? Just that. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Sometimes.” You hated how small your voice sounded. “Sometimes I know it's irrational and I still can't stop it.” Silence followed. Long enough that panic started creeping in. Then Qifrey said, very simply, “Okay.” Just okay. Like he was accepting the weather. Like he wasn't asking you to justify it.

For a while afterward, things became strangely careful. Not awkward exactly—Qifrey was too skilled with people for awkwardness; but careful. He would announce himself before stepping close behind you. Ask, “Can I sit here?” even when there was plenty of room. Sometimes he held out his hand jokingly and said, “Permission request pending,” with ridiculous solemnity. It made you laugh despite yourself. He never acted frustrated. Never acted deprived. But occasionally you'd catch tiny moments: Qifrey reaching toward you absentmindedly before stopping himself. Seeing something flicker across his face before he hid it behind a smile. And guilt began creeping under your skin because you knew Qifrey was affectionate by nature. He touched shoulders, ruffled hair, draped himself over friends without thought. Around you, he folded himself smaller.

Eventually the conflict exploded in the dumbest way possible—which somehow made it hurt worse. It happened after a long, exhausting day while helping the children practice magic. Everyone had been frustrated and tired. Coco had nearly set something on fire. Agott was arguing. Tetia was laughing. Chaos. Pure chaos. By evening your nerves already felt stretched thin. Qifrey approached from behind while speaking, probably intending only to lean over your shoulder and point at something—and instinct struck before thought did. You jerked away sharply and snapped, “Can you not?” The words came out harder than intended. Sharper. Qifrey froze. Completely froze. And for the first time since you'd known him, his smile disappeared all at once.

“Right,” he said quietly. Too quietly. “Sorry.” That was it. No teasing. No recovery. He walked away before you could answer. The silence afterward felt unbearable. You found him later near the edge of the grounds beneath the trees, staring out into darkness. “I didn't mean—” you started. “I know.” His voice was gentle, but somehow that hurt more. “I know you didn't.” He finally looked at you and smiled, except it looked tired around the edges. “But I think...” He hesitated. “I think I've become so focused on not frightening you that I've started feeling afraid too.” Your chest tightened painfully. “Afraid?” “Of guessing wrong.” A laugh escaped him, small and humorless. “Of making you uncomfortable. Of becoming something you have to endure.”

You stared at him because suddenly you understood. This wasn't only your fear anymore. Somewhere along the way, Qifrey had started walking on invisible glass around you too. Slowly, carefully, terrified of breaking something. And the realization made your eyes sting. “I don't endure you,” you said immediately. “Qifrey, I don't.” He looked startled. So you kept talking before courage disappeared. “I'm scared all the time, okay? Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes even when I don't want to be. And I hate it because...” Your voice cracked slightly. “Because I want things with you. I want to be close to you. I just don't know how.” Silence followed. Wind moved softly through the trees. Then Qifrey's expression softened in a way that nearly undid you.

Very slowly, very carefully, he lowered himself to sit beside you—not touching, just close. “Then,” he said quietly, “we'll learn.” You looked at him. “Learn?” He smiled, small and warm and utterly himself again. “You're not a puzzle to solve.” A pause. “And I'm not going anywhere.” Then he held out his hand between you, palm upward, leaving a ridiculous amount of space for retreat. “No pressure.” You stared at it for several seconds. Then several more. And finally—heart pounding—you moved your hand forward and placed your fingertips lightly against his. Barely touching. Hardly anything at all. Qifrey looked down at your hands and went completely still. Not because it was dramatic. Not because it was some grand romantic moment. But because somehow, instinctively, he understood exactly what it meant: not here, fixed, cured. Just here. Trying. And for Qifrey, that had always been enough.