also a place to stay

“You are a mess,” you comment before walking over to him to help out. The largest plushie — a blue, white, and yellow plane — is in one hand, whereas the groceries are in another. You can’t help but be reminded of childhood as you walk over to his kitchen counter, a dream that quickly disappears in the blink of an eye as soon as you take a glance at the man you once shared it with.

The Caleb that stands in front of you is not the same Caleb from back then. 

His face is sharp, coated in duty you don’t ever remember him having. His hands are meticulous as they arrange the items from the grocery bags, scarred with his newfound power. His eyes are cold, deprived of the sunlight that always shined in them when you were kids. 

You can only stare at this stranger as he faintly retains the person he used to be.

“Need anything?” he asks. 

You shake your head, embarrassed. “No.”

He looks over at you for a second, scrutiny coating every moment of it, before going back to organizing the canned items. “I’m sure you haven’t run out of things to do in Skyhaven. I’m sorry I haven’t been very present.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been browsing the books you have on your shelves. They’re not too bad of a selection.”

You don’t admit that you’re not okay and that not even the worlds you find in literature could pull you away from your boredom. You even skimmed through his most annotated book, Paradise Lost, just to learn more about who this Caleb is, but to no avail.

“Sounds fun,” he comments, and the conversation dissipates after that.

When grocery items are placed in his pantry and fridge, you move on to the large collection of plushies. Aside from the plane you were holding, there were so many colorful little cuties waiting to be placed in his dark, unwelcoming home. You recognize some of them from the wishlist you had written in your diary back when you were still a child.

“Fairymare!” you can’t help but exclaim excitedly. You squeeze it with all your might, happiness oozing out of every smile on your face. Your childhood comes back to you, even if only for a brief moment.

And the person you spent it with stares at you, his lips slightly curved upward.

“The amusement park was giving out free plushies today,” he admits. “I couldn’t help but snag some of them since you said I should decorate my house more.”

Your smile turns into a full grin. It feels like sunlight shines where clouds have always lingered. “I’m glad you listened to me.”

He remembers.

He remembers everything about you.

“I’m sure half of them will end up in your apartment though,” Caleb teases.

A glimpse of the Caleb you miss dearly comes up in that witty reply. With the lightheartedness of a remark and the smile of a cheeky young soul, you have to look at him to remind yourself that this is the colonel that wanted to keep you in his home, never to be seen by anybody else again. 

Your mood doesn’t sour though. Instead, an idea appears in your head. Years and years of wondering, finally ending with one simple question.

“Can we visit the amusement park tomorrow?”

When Caleb’s brow raises with that small smile, you press Fairymare’s hands together. “Please, please, please?”

He must have seen something in your excitement, because for a split second, the violets of his eyes sparkle like newborn stars in nebulas. He’s no longer the man you grieve even as his feet walk the ground, no longer the unanswered questions you couldn’t ask.

He’s Caleb.

“You’re lucky I’m free tomorrow,” he says. “We can visit, for old time’s sake.”

You’re not quite comfortable to where you can hug him, but you can toss Fairymare over to his direction with all the happiness you have within you.

And in a very Caleb fashion, he catches it seamlessly.

Nostalgia drapes over both of you as the amusement park welcomes you to its liveliness.

Candy stands sit near almost every ride, and the exclusive plushie shop is just around the corner. Children run with cotton candy in their hands, screaming frantically as they approach another ride. You can’t imagine even sitting on the ride they chose, let alone stomaching the loops of it, but their happiness is infectious.

“Do you remember when you bought me cotton candy after we rode the ferris wheel?” you ask Caleb, whose eyes land on a particular ride with planes on it. “You made fun of me when my teeth turned pink.”

He looks at you, momentarily tilting his head as though the memory is hidden in a file in his head. “My teeth were blue, so we’re even.”

“But at least I didn’t laugh at you back then!”

He laughs now, the sound as lovely as the happiness surrounding you both. “Okay, okay. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Hmph.”

You pass by families playing bumper cars, teens on a high swing ride, and the emptiness of the ferris wheel. If Caleb wasn’t holding your hand, you would play hide and seek with him, hiding in the ferris wheel where he would easily find you.

“You’re thinking about running, aren’t you?” he asks.

You huff again. “Would you catch me if I did?”

A smile forms on Caleb’s face, and the newborn stars in his eyes die. It sends shivers down your spine, the way he looks at you like a subordinate and not the person he knows best.

But fear dissipates into excitement once the both of you arrive at the exclusive plushie store. Known for its expensive and one-of-a-kind plushies and trinkets, seldom does anybody visit this part of the amusement park. 

“Caleb! Are those Fairymares free?”

You don’t wait for an answer before browsing the bucket with free or discounted plushies. Purple Fairymares are on top, but you take the white unicorn version sitting at the very bottom and the two sunny apples sitting beside it. A smiling red apple and a pouty green apple.

Caleb holds all of your new finds as you browse the shelves for the more expensive ones. Your joy clouds you from noticing the fearful glances directed towards him, recognition of the cold colonel filling their expressions.

But to you, he’s always been Caleb. The Caleb who’s paying for your new plushies, the Caleb who happily holds everything for you, the Caleb who’s so busy — so different — that he doesn’t even remember what today is.

“I’ve got…” you take a second to count the plushies in your hands. Ten. Ten plushies and all of them are special editions. 

“And these are?” he asks. His eyes still have those familiar star-like sparks in them, but now they’re clouded with amusement as he takes his wallet from his back pocket. 

“Your new friends! We’re going to decorate your apartment tomorrow!”

“Why can’t we decorate it tonight? I’m free.”

You tilt your penguin plushie’s head to display your confusion for you. “Because we’re going to be here all day.”

Caleb sighs. Not complaining, only relenting. “Okay, okay.”

You leave with three different tote bags filled to the brim with cuddly plushies. Caleb leaves without even a slight dent in his bank account, but judging by the sweat on his forehead, the warmth of the afternoon is getting to him.

Sitting on a bench close to the bumper cars, you enjoy the sweet comfort of the Sunny Apple as rest overtakes you both. A young couple sits on the other end, tasting ice cream and laughing at the screams from the high swing ride.

“That high swing ride isn’t as high as the one we rode as kids,” you whisper, Sunny Apple’s legs swinging as you bounce the plushie on his legs. 

“Any higher and they would reach the stratosphere,” Caleb says dryly. You wouldn’t have believed it if you’d forgotten that Skyhaven is in, well, the sky. The ride suddenly feels too high, and only when the passengers walk out in one piece does your heart feel like it’s beating at a normal pace.

You don’t notice how you absentmindedly bounce Sunny Apple, nor do you notice how the couple glances at the way Caleb stares at you. If you weren’t so enamored by the ride, you would’ve seen the flicker of foreshadowing in their gazes, like they see their future sitting right beside them. 

Nostalgia drapes over Caleb when he notices what you don’t.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You were getting distracted there.”

“Hm?” you blink before turning back to him. Your eyes momentarily get lost in his as his hand settles on your waist protectively. In his gaze you see realization, a past shared yet long forgotten. His eyes, which now dance on your parted lips, not only hold new stars but shine the old ones too.

This is Caleb.

You don’t have to be scared of him.

“Caleb,” you whisper, soft and breathless. Your hand touches the necklace you gave him all those years ago. When U Come Back, it says, and he has.

He has come back to you. Different, sure, but his heart is just the same as it was all those years ago.

And when Caleb’s lips touch yours for the first time, it feels like home and warmth and everything he’s always been to you. His hands land on your face, roughness learning how to be soft again as he carries all the love he’s had for you.

Such a happy birthday indeed. 

a/n: I had butterflies writing this one, you guys! I took inspiration from the amusement park scene in Colonel Caleb's myth, sprinkling some fluff onto it because he and his beloved deserve so much happiness. Happy Birthday Caleb!

Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)

The cupcakes won’t judge you, and neither will the lumpia.

The lack of conversation around you makes melancholy well up in your chest. You were never good at attracting conversation, much less maintaining it, so perhaps it’s a good thing that you remained by yourself during this entire ceremony. Even though you yearn to feel less alone, maybe this is for the best.

Maybe the cupcakes and lumpia will be your only companions tonight.

You sigh as you walk back to your table of strangers. They don’t notice you at first since their eyes are on the beverage stand currently being stocked up with bottles of what can only be assumed is wine, but as you take a bite of your cupcake, your eyes land on a specific someone.

You recognize him as the man who sat on the pew next to you at the wedding. He stepped out to help the flower girl distribute petals all over the aisle, caught the ring when the ring bearer dropped it as they walked, and cried when the vows were being said. You had watched those violet eyes dart around the church more than you’d watched your friend’s wedding, it seems.

But now, he’s organizing the beverage stand with other men you recognize from the ceremony, and your eyes cannot focus anywhere else. His smile is infectious and spills over to the others, his jokes make the table across them laugh, and when he holds a bottle of rosé to read its contents… his muscles peek out of his suit’s sleeve.

The complementary water does nothing to soothe your thirst.

“They’re taking a while, aren’t they?” one of the ladies at your table comments. “I just hope the stand’s open when the speeches happen.”

“Really? I prefer hearing the speeches sober. They’re very sweet.”

“They’re sweeter with wine.”

You don’t even register the conversation until you feel a nudge on your shoulder. “Yes?” you say, panic welling up in your chest. Have you done something wrong?

“You’re eyeing Caleb, aren’t you?” the lady beside you asks. Her smile is welcoming, but her eyes gleam under the chandelier. “Don’t worry. He’s single.”

You have to blink to register the fact that they’re talking to you.

Caleb. Caleb is his name.

“He and the groom go way back. He was actually the one who urged him to flirt with his crush, who is now his wife.”

You say nothing, but you take note of everything being said. You notice that Caleb has the natural instinct to help others in everything he does. How sweet.

By now, the stand is fully organized. The bottles are displayed atop of a black bar table, and a line quickly builds up soon after. You watch Caleb’s eyes widen and the way they quickly soften when the first customer approaches with their request.

“Direct all orders to my friend. I’m not good with drinks,” he sheepishly admits, that stupid smile appearing on his face.

“Wanna get drinks with us?” the ladies ask you abruptly. Their friendliness is unfamiliar when all you’ve known are snark remarks from old “friends,” but you shake your head at the offer with the excuse of needing to finish your plate first.

You find yourself alone again, watching your surroundings like you’re working security and not a friend of the bride. Conversations erupt and grow louder in volume as the line to the stand adds up, the couple’s families talk amongst each other to presumably prepare for their speeches, and the music changes from the usual pop song to a ballad.

“Kiss from a Rose? Really?” someone comments. It makes the ceremony erupt in laughter, and your faint smile appears too.

The song’s lyrics are all that occupies your mind as you continue eating your food. Your half-devoured cupcake stares at you as you mouth the lyrics to yourself, a concert erupting in your head with your food as your only witness.

Well, at least you thought so.

When the song ends and smoothly introduces a Filipino ballad, you feel a light touch on your shoulder. You freeze, dread encompassing your entire body, until a familiar voice counters it with its sweetness.

“You looked lovely, like a swaying flower.”

You turn around, your thoughts proven right when Caleb stands there with a small smile on his face. It’s the same one he had when he watched the newlyweds share their vows and when he helped the flower girl. It’s the same sparkle as when happiness consumes him completely.

“Oh,” you whisper shyly. “T-thank you.”

Caleb shamelessly takes the seat next to you, making your heart flutter. “I hope you didn’t mind my tears back at the wedding.”

Oh, so he did notice you, and he noticed you looking at him.

You take a sip of water to hide the tint of your cheeks, gasping when you find the cup to be empty. Caleb’s smile hides a much bigger laugh, but he doesn’t show it.

“Do you need more water?”

Your mouth moves before your mind does. “No. Your tears were enough.”

As soon as those words leave your lips, your hands fly to your mouth. Murmured apologies are all that encompass this newfound conversation, hoping that your new company doesn’t run away. You’ve dealt with that too many times in the past.

But, to your surprise, Caleb’s smile widens.

The sparks in his eyes brighten with every apology, and his hand moves to pull yours off of your mouth. “It’s okay, it’s okay. That was hilarious.”

Hilarious?

In the spaces you always occupied, that would’ve pushed people away. It would’ve been hilarious only to the people who already disliked you because it gave them an excuse to mock you. 

You wait for Caleb to leave, to tell you that he had something to do.

But he doesn’t.

He just stares at you.

Those violet eyes read your expression, and judging by his slight frown, he understands.

His hands clutch yours like a familiar comfort as your anxiety builds up from within, drowning you in its waters. “I like your jokes.”

You grip his hand tightly, feeling his veins and scars and warmth. “Thank you,” comes out as a soft, shy whisper. Not fully convinced, but not hesitant in the possibility that he may be telling the truth.

The music changes to a more upbeat song, and you clear your throat to get rid of the silence between you. “I’ll grab some more food.”

Escaping has always been the safe route.

You expect to be back at the food stands all on your own, like the first three times you did the same. The pork barbecue and desserts are the only ones catching your attention, nothing else. Not your anxiety, not the cutie that makes butterflies well up in your tummy.

But you didn’t expect that same cutie to linger behind you as you browse the food options, looking at you like you’re the spectacle.

“Do you want recommendations?” you murmur slyly.

He smiles. “No need. I cooked half of the items here.”

That makes you turn around. With your plate in one hand and your heart in the other, you stare at this man as though he were an angel. He might as well be, considering his creations have saved you multiple times tonight.

“You…” you say in utter disbelief. “What can’t you do?”

His smile is accompanied by his raised brow. “What do you mean?”

You hear his soft laugh when you turn towards the food instead of answering his ridiculous question. The answer should be obvious enough, no? 

As you walk back to your table with Caleb following close behind, microphones are being set up for those who are giving speeches. Your heart braces for Caleb to leave your side to help out, but he’s glued to your every move.

With every bite you take of your cupcake, he does the same with his pork barbecue. When you look into your purse, he does the same with his pockets.

“Aren’t you going to help them set up?” you finally ask.

“Do you want me to?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I just thought that since you’ve had a hand in every inch of this wedding, you’d want to help out.”

Caleb laughs that same hearty laugh, opening worlds you’d never known existed.

“I want to stay here with you, though,” he says simply, like it’s normal and not the words you’ve wanted to hear your entire life. “They can survive without me.”

But as Lady Luck would have it, one of the men trip over a cord, eliciting gasps and laughter all throughout the reception. You look at Caleb with every intention of giggling. “You sure?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have prevented that even if I was there.”

“Oh, so you would have tripped him?”

There goes your mouth again.

And there is his smile, bright and amused by all the words you regret to say aloud.

“Not quite, but I’m not entirely perfect like you seem to think I am.”

“I do not!”

He laughs again, turning towards where the newlyweds stand once the mics are on and working. Speeches become your entertainment, and Caleb becomes the audience to your every thought. He laughs with every remark and smiles with every ounce of yourself you show to him. 

Dancing was even more interesting. Crowds weren’t so bad once all of your attention went to one person and to the music that accompanies every step. You’ve never been in sync with another, but with Caleb, your heart feels at peace.

“Just like that,” Caleb would say right before you accidentally stepped on his foot, but he never got angry. Only amused, only smitten.

You leave the reception with a smile on your face, Caleb’s number in your purse, a ton of food, and the bouquet from the wedding toss.

a/n: Caleb is so freakin' sweet. To me, he comes off as the guy that helps out with everything because people keep calling him for help lol, and he's glad to do so <333

Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)

Twenty-four hour shifts were all he had known these past few months. Days upon days where his medical license felt like less of an achievement because it didn’t help with his race against time. Endless research and collaborations with other specialists for Protocore Syndrome, only to lead to nothing that could help with his childhood friend’s condition.

There were times he didn’t think things could get worse, but life loves to prove him wrong.

He remembered the panic coursing through his veins when he resuscitated MC. The loud machine mocked him with his inadequacies, his voice foreign even to him because of how loud and angry it sounded when he ordered the nurses around. He remembered the sigh of relief he didn’t allow himself to breathe, because he knew deep down that this won’t be the worst of it.

He would have to revive her again and again, until he couldn’t anymore.

“Water?” Doctor Greyson offered, pulling him out of the reverie of worry and back into his office. But as he takes the paper cup, it sloshes in his shaky hands, and he is reminded of someone.

You.

He remembered passing you by when he ran to MC’s hospital room, wishing he could’ve said something instead of letting fear overtake him. Perhaps a word letting you know you had been the reason his heart didn’t stop beating completely would’ve sufficed. Perhaps it would’ve erased the frown he saw on your face after the resuscitation. Perhaps it would’ve given him the courage to do more than just hold your hand.

“Can you call my girlfriend for me?” he asks Greyson, tilting his head towards his phone lying on his office couch.

“What for?”

“I need to hear her voice.”

But when you hung up on Greyson, Zayne immediately knew something was very wrong. Dread and confusion linger on his tired body, unsure what to do. Unsure what he can do.

He asks Greyson for his phone soon after.

He needs to talk to you.

“Are you all right?” are the first words he uttered when you picked up. It isn’t like you to hang up abruptly, nor is it like you to not clutch his hand when he holds it. 

It isn’t like you to hang up on him either. It’s one thing to hang up on Greyso — he’d done that many times before — but you had never done that to him. He supposes he deserves it for all your calls he failed to answer during his shifts, but concern overwhelms him nonetheless.

“I think she’s mad at you, Doctor Zayne,” Greyson unhelpfully concludes. 

“It would be more useful if you told me the reason behind her anger,” he snarls. Taking another sip of the water, he sees Greyson shrug through the rim of the cup. 

“Regardless, the Director asked you to take a break tonight. Maybe you can talk to her when you arrive home.”

“I’m not going home.”

Greyson scoffs. “In the state you’re in, you're basically an upcoming patient. Besides, don’t you want to spend more time with your girlfriend?”

Zayne takes another sip of the water, then pauses. There is nothing more he would rather do — nothing more he would want than to do that. But he simply can’t.

He sees your face in his mind again — your frown, the way your eyes refused to meet his, your harsh tone. Does it matter if he can’t if your happiness is on the line?

“I take back everything I just said. I’m heading home. Have Dr. Jones in charge of my patients tonight, Greyson.”

His friend smiles before heading out of Zayne’s office, leaving Zayne to contemplate for a few moments. Toying with his car keys in his fingers — a habit he’s gotten from you — he bolts to the hospital’s gift shop, hoping bouquets are still available even on a night so dreadful.

Hoping they can brighten up his life, just a little bit.

Zayne’s duffel bag meets the floor you kneel on.

Your cries were enough to make him run towards your bedroom. His exhaustion doesn’t stop him, the pain from shifts sharp with every stride, but he doesn’t waste any time looking for you.

And when he finds you, Zayne doesn’t waste a moment to contemplate. He kneels beside you and pulls you into his embrace despite your protests. Your fists meet his arms and your insults meet his heart, but he doesn’t let go. 

He doesn’t stop whispering your name as though it were a sacred vow. 

He doesn’t let himself break, even though open luggages and scattered clothes surround the both of you. 

He doesn’t loosen his hold on your body as your tears coat his scrubs, watering the jasmines beside the both of you.

He looks at the luggage with bated breaths.

You were planning to leave him.

Your wails are louder, sharper with every unintelligible word leaving your quivering lips. Zayne may be a man of many mistakes, but he’s learned from past arguments that those words are cold, harsh insults directed at him. He doesn’t have to ask, not when he knows you so well.

But for the life of him, he doesn’t understand why you would leave.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe his mistakes have made him unlovable. All those nights spent on research only to find nothing. All those nights he missed meals because grief had filled his stomach instead. All those nights spent on hospital grounds, slowly forgetting the feeling of your arms around him.

His grip on you loosens slightly, letting you know that he wouldn’t blame you if you chose to walk away.

But your cries are still loud, still pained. Your hand is on his coat as though it holds all your answers and your grievances. Your tears run down his scrubs. You’re holding onto him.

And no matter what happens, he will stay with you.

“I’m here, I’m here…” he murmurs, low and gravelly. A result of his exhaustion, only warm because it’s you he’s talking to. “I’m here.”

Unaware that that is, in fact, the problem, he jolts when your cries turn into ferocious screams.

“I wish you were gone! Leave m-me alone like you always do.”

He doesn’t, because where would he go if he wasn’t with you?

Moonlight illuminates the dark room, a reminder that the night has not yet ended despite everything that has happened. It shines on your face as you scream at him, making him realize just how much he’s forgotten the features he once fell in love with. Your words are lost to the air of the night as he stares, taking note of everything.

Your hair, the way it cascades on your shoulder as it collapses from your bun.

Your hands, the way your knuckles have been left unkissed for far too long.

Your face, the way every muscle constricts with each part of your anger.

Zayne is enamored.

Even though you want to leave — even though he knows he deserves to be left behind — he takes your hands in his. His calloused hands meet your clenched ones, coating them in his comfort. His company.

He doesn’t know how much you’ve wanted that, and how much you despise it now that you’ve received it.

He lets go of one of your hands to push the tossed clothes off of the bed, ignoring the way his heart burns at where those clothes would’ve gone had he not called. They can be tidied tomorrow morning, but for now, you are his priority.

“Get some rest. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Don’t tell me w-what to do!” Your words from the hospital ring in his ears like a familiar blade he allows himself to bleed onto. He enjoys the sensation like he’s always enjoyed your stubbornness, letting himself feel the pain of his inadequacies.

But even pain doesn’t overcome love, so he whispers, “Shh. You need some rest, my love,” as though that isn’t a weapon in and of itself.

It works, though, and soon your breaths have calmed and your eyes are closed.

And Zayne sits beside you, wondering if his heart could beat at all.

The next morning comes like an unexpected friendship — surprising and somewhat dreadful, especially when isolation is your soulmate.

But when you blink your eyes open and your eyelashes hesitate to separate from one another, you realize that it is, in fact, another day. Sunlight spills through your bedroom windows, peskily shining your opened luggage in its glow as if it seeks to remind you of what you failed to do.

You’re under the covers you’ve slept and cried in for years instead of basking in hotel sheets.

You’re still home. 

You’re still with Zayne.

Like you do every morning, you reach for his spot on the bed. What usually meets your fingertips are the smooth sheets and pillow, occasionally even his penguin plushie. Hope dies every morning you wish he were here.

But today is different.

Your hand finds Zayne’s sleeping face, caressing his unruly hair. It shocks you, makes your heart beat in ways it hadn’t before. 

Perhaps if you still had hope in your heart, you would smile. You would pry his glasses off of his face and joke about how overworked he is, as though that was a laughing matter and not one you’ve thought about dying over. You would pepper his face in light kisses, delighted that he’s home.

But because every ounce of hope has dissipated, you turn around and stand up from the bed. The luggage is still in the same place it was when you cried, but the items are gone. Messy clothes, tossed toiletries… 

The luggage is empty, save for a little note in messy doctor’s handwriting.

Don’t leave, my love.

Perhaps in another life, where happiness lingers in the place grief does, you would wake Zayne up and tell him that you would never leave him. He would be peppered with so many desperate kisses and thankful pleas that it would be impossible for him to doubt you.

But you simply rip the note in two and put the pieces in your pocket, keeping a mental note to throw them out.

Being alive is truly a curse.

Your tears don’t get the best of you like it does on most mornings, so you push yourself and make some breakfast. The scent of warm food is forgotten now, leaving only the simple meals you can toss in machines in hopes they come out somewhat edible.

But Zayne beat you to your own game.

He stands in front of the stove, methodically cooking eggs on the heated pan. The sound of oil popping is something you haven’t heard in a while, as well as the surprised jolt Zayne does when it pops in his direction. 

Butterflies flutter where the flowers of grief bloom, but they die just as fast when your clouds of thoughts arise to wash them away.

Has Zayne cooked for MC when he watched over her in Akso Hospital? Has he provided conversation that led to laughter instead of the silence that haunts you? Has he given her jasmines similar to the ones laying on your bedroom floor?

“Good morning,” he greets, tearing you out of your reverie. “The Director gave me a day off, which is why I’m here.”

“Oh.”

Were you disappointed or surprised? You’re not sure anymore.

Zayne places the scrambled eggs on the dinner table, the steam’s warmth making the morning less daunting. You don’t admit how much you miss this — quiet mornings with the absence of worries or anything else that could take them away.

You don’t admit how much you crave his cooking, even if it’s eggs that are slightly burnt.

You don’t admit how much you crave his company, because one morning of good food doesn’t erase all the time you spent wishing he was here. A good breakfast doesn’t wipe years of fallen tears and unfulfilled prayers.

The morning remains silent, not by the gentleness of domesticity, but because words are less exhausting unsaid than screamed — and because grievances are easier to handle when they’re piled up rather than spilled all over your souls.

Or so you think.

The next few sunrises bring warm gifts, but unfortunately for Zayne, you don’t seem to want to accept them.

Early morning routines — which usually consist of him making himself look presentable to all willing eyes — now include little handwritten notes scattered across the house. For every day you chose to stay, there would be new notes that are intended to be words of gratitude.

I watered the jasmines for you, my love.

There are chocolates on the kitchen counter. I saved some just for you.

And your favorite one: MC is okay!

How odd is it that the most emotion you’ve gotten out of him is through a post-it note about another woman. 

You simply roll your eyes with every new note — every new attempt at making it up to you. It’s worthless considering he hasn’t figured out why you were mad in the first place, but deep down in your soul — where you’ve learned to deem yourself unworthy of anybody’s love — the notes are reminiscent of his once everpresent existence. The early days where breakfasts are warmer and coated with sweet nothings, while nights would be coated in his love.

But the notes also remind you of the fact that he isn’t here. 

Those words — as futile as they are — are better heard with the husk of his voice than read on illegible post-its. At least that feels real. At least that is something you can cherish.

At least that would mean he’s next to you, which would make it easier for you to hurt him as much as his silence has hurt you.

But because not all mornings are merciful, you rip this note in half and toss the remnants in the trash. 

Even though the bedroom’s bin is always coated in the color of his notes, Zayne still tries to find ways to make you happy.

After grueling news about Protocore Syndrome’s mortality rate, he comes home with takeout he bought from the bakery beside Akso Hospital. The tray contains cheesecakes, macarons, and other desserts he remembered were your favorites.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Doctor Zayne?” the baker — an old lady Zayne had come to see as a second mother — asked, and he didn’t know how to answer. Every day, he dreads coming home to an empty house. 

Every day, he wonders why you would want to leave.

Now that he’s home and he sees you on the couch watching TV, Zayne breathes a sigh of relief. 

You’re home.

He settles on the dinner table quietly, afraid to be seen by the one woman he’s wanted to see his entire shift. The desserts sit on the table, waiting to be noticed by their recipient. The jasmines watered by your tears sit prettily next to it. Still alive, still beautiful.

The only sign that you noticed him that night was the glare pointed at his direction. No words were needed to kill a man who has one foot in the grave and the other in medicine.

And yet, he tries to find different ways to approach you without his personal fears meddling in his way.

The next morning, Zayne tries cooking breakfast instead of writing notes. The sun isn’t even out when burnt bacon and slightly overcooked eggs grace the dinner table.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers in your hair before heading off to work, careful not to jolt you awake. 

The days after approach like snowfall — cold, unwelcoming, nostalgic. Zayne finds his little breakfast plates empty after returning home from labs and conferences, which allows him to breathe his first sigh of relief on those days. He eats the food you leave on the table — the closest he can get to you. He savors the emptiness of dinners without your presence and suffers the agony he so often feels.

Whatever he may have done, he deserves it.

But that doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying to care for you.

“What’s this?” you ask him on one particular morning. Zayne holds up an ice sculpture he made the night before — not quite the same as the one you shattered, but he would be ashamed to say he had forgotten what the original looked like.

“Two snowmen holding hands.”

He waits for your reaction, a sliver of hope welling up in his chest for the first time in years. He doesn’t quite get close, no, but the snowmen are reminiscent of a past long gone. A past now reduced to workloads and quiet declarations. A past that melts like the sculpture does.

Zayne waits for something. Waits to see if the spark in your eyes means anything. Waits to see if your hands, still unkissed, reach for his freezing ones. Waits to see if what was once real can still be rekindled.

But patience can be futile when hope is fragile.

Your hand brushes his briefly as you take the sculpture before walking away. Silence ensues, fills the house with its torment, and Zayne doesn’t know what to think.

Perhaps he deserved the nights in the hospital full of dying hopes in his living hands. Perhaps he deserved it for all the times he’s failed to find a cure for his childhood best friend’s heart condition. Perhaps he deserved every second of his anguish — every second of worry, for you and her.

His tears blend with the melted ice in his hands.

How could such a genius feel so lost?

“Oh, look who’s here.”

Zayne is met with tubes, machines, and the snarky tone of his dying childhood best friend as soon as he enters her new hospital room. Covered head to toe in personal protective equipment, he feels as though he’s a ghost in her life. 

Not a friend who spent his entire life trying to save her. Not the doctor failing to keep her alive.

A ghost. 

Impersonal, dead, invisible.

“You were resuscitated again a few hours ago,” he comments lightly, but judging by her grimace, she did not need the reminder. “Are the tubes painful?”

“Everything is painful,” she whispers. Her voice, usually so bright and happy, is reduced to softness. When she winces and her heartbeat spikes, Zayne rushes to adjust tubes and hold her hand, hoping this wouldn’t be the last time he would see her breathing.

If he were a better surgeon — a better researcher — she would be outside of this godforsaken intensive care unit and laughing happily under the sun’s rays. She would be tied to friendships and romance, not to tubes connecting to lifelines. She would be at celebratory dinners, drunk and spilling her heart away.

She would be asking him about his dark circles and defending you if she found out how cold you’ve been towards him.

Consumed by what ifs and hopeless attempts and futile races against death’s embrace, Zayne looks directly in her eyes — the light long gone, replaced by a feeling so familiar to him: longing.

Longing for what? He couldn’t guess.

“If I die tonight…”

Zayne freezes.

“Promise me that you won’t internalize it.”

He stays silent because he knows his tears will show, even beneath the layers of protective equipment.

“You’ll live, MC,” he murmurs with all of the hope he can muster. As long as his hands work and his heart beats, she will have a chance to live.

But she shakes her head.

“You know w-when your time is up, a-and I think mine is soon.” She cuts his response off with a wave. “Don’t blame yourself when it happens.”

“It will not happen.”

“Oh, it will,” she retorts, but this time, there is a smile beneath the mask that keeps her alive. “Y-you’ve been around death often, Zayne. It makes itself known before it takes a soul.”

Zayne wishes he could disagree, but not even textbook evidence can dispute her point. Death is a dreadful force that bows to nobody — especially not the noble living. He knows it all too well; he’s shed too many tears to fool himself into thinking otherwise.

“You know, your girlfriend visited me right after I was revived.” MC’s small smile shrank into a flat line. “She braided my hair.”

She shows the tiny braids peeking out of her pillow. Little ribbons hold her hair together, similar to how they were when she was a kid. 

“And while she braided my hair, she talked about the dinner party you introduced us in. I can’t believe s-she thought she wasn’t the life of the party when s-she was the topic of all the hunters’ conversations!”

Her voice is full of life now, and it was easy to hope that she would live a better tomorrow. It was easy to see how you bring life to the people you meet.

“I-I regret not approaching her again sooner. We would’ve been good friends.”

A lump appears in Zayne’s throat. He looks at his friend’s braids and is reminded of when your hands caressed his head and tied multiple little ponytails on it. Your hands were gentle and your words were soft — like a blanket on dark nights, moonlight on maniacal ocean waves.

He blinks away his tears. They have no place here.

“Can I tell you something, MC?” Zayne asks, akin to a fearful child who wasn’t allowed to be anything else but perfect.

Her eyes, which were previously shut, open up slightly. Bloodshot from sleep, red from exhaustion.

He knows that look all too well.

“Of course.”

Zayne takes a breath. Then another.

“She’s mad at me.”

“For what?” Her head visibly tilts in confusion, even as she’s restricted by tubes and machines strapped to her body.

“I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to make it up to her, but I don’t think any of my attempts are working.”

She moves her legs from beneath the blanket but stops when she remembers the tubes restrict her. Life desperately clings onto her regardless of her condition, and her desire to help overwhelmingly surpasses death’s hold.

“L-let me guess. Were your attempts all wordless gestures and silent acts of care?”

Zayne freezes again. For someone who doesn’t have his Evol, she’s suspiciously good at making him do that.

“I thought so.” Her laugh is quiet, but it’s akin to the tones of mischievous cats whenever they push something off counters. “Have you ever tried asking her what’s wrong?”

“No,” he admits. 

“How would y-you know how to fix a problem you don’t know about?” she says, the mock of it soothed by the care laced in the words. “It’s not a bad thing to be close to your loved ones, you know. I’m sure she’ll welcome you with open arms once you allow yourself to be…”

MC’s breath hitches, the machine maniacally beeping. Zayne rushes to adjust tubes and equipment — precision of a surgeon, heart of a human — but it doesn’t calm down.

“...seen.”

She finishes her sentence with only a sliver of life in her body. Zayne holds her hand — gently, as to not butcher the tubes in her veins — but retains the desperation of a supplicant whose hands and knees bleed for an answer.

“MC!”

The machines quiet down, like they always seem to do, but Zayne doesn’t feel an ounce of relief. He sees her body giving up, the Protocore consuming every life out of her until it will finally release her from its torment. He watches her as she catches air and breathes it into her lungs, only holding onto life because it hasn’t left her completely.

His hand stills atop hers.

It’s one of the only times his hands were worthless in a hospital room.

“You’re so c-closed off,” she huffs. “Always thinking that distance will heal what you’ve broken… when all people seek from you is your company. You did that to me so many times.”

Her coughs momentarily break him, but tears caress his face anyway.

He’s never felt so exposed in his life. His intentions, his fears of losing you came from insecurities buried beneath his facade. Maybe if he was better, he would deserve you more. If he were a better doctor, a better person, he would one day come home and bask in the love you have always given him. 

However, in the pursuit of being a better man, he has abandoned his role as your lover. In pursuit of perfection, he has given you absence. In pursuit of believing you deserved better than a man who came home broken, he’s given you a version of him that broke you.

“Thank you for all the work you’ve put into saving me,” she whispers, and Zayne holds her hand tighter. “But remember that perfection is impossible. I’m still alive because of you, but my death will not be your fault.”

“Please don’t say that…” but even he hears the doubt in his tone.

“Take care of yourself, yeah?” Her tears coat her face now. “And take care of her for me.”

Zayne basks in the suffocation of the grief lingering in the intensive care unit, desperately talking to his best friend for as long as he can. Tears coat the conversation in melancholy, but he knows that her breathy retorts are her attempts to make him laugh. 

And so he does.

He thinks of you when she mentions the gold dress you wore at the dinner party. He thinks of you when she laughs at his attempts to comfort you (“An ice sculpture you didn’t even bother to solidify correctly?” she mocked). He thinks of you with every laugh, every smile that comes out of him even as his mask hides every one.

Zayne says a final goodbye to his best friend that night, promising her that he’ll smile and laugh and bask in the warmth of all the sunshines she wouldn’t be able to live through.

“I love you, Zayne,” she whispers, broken with acceptance of the fate about to overtake her. He returns the words with dry jokes so that laughter is what accompanies her.

And when news breaks of her peaceful death, Zayne finds you in the hospital’s waiting room and runs, runs, runs to the only woman who can hold his heavy heart.

thank you for reading! any form of interaction is appreciated. take care :)

You take a sharp breath before entering the hospital room where she is supposedly laying. You step inside, absorbing the beeping machines and various bouquets, before closing your eyes. Anguish doesn’t have a place here. There is enough of it in your life.

But the sight of MC fast asleep, covered in white blankets like she’s decorated for her burial, pierces your chest. Hatred dissipates into a thing of the past, and realization replaces it. 

She’s dying.

Your fists shake with how hard you’re clenching them, as though they are weapons you can use to fight your way through this grief. But you’re only hurting yourself. You’re only seeing your inadequacy in comparison to the demons that plague you.

She’s dying, and there is nothing you can do to save her.

Tears stream down your face now. You still have time to leave. You didn’t even have to visit her as soon as you got a call detailing the severity of her condition. You still have time to run, to make sure this beloved woman doesn’t see the mess you have become.

But your feet are stuck to the ground, and she eventually wakes up from her slumber.

“Mmm…” she murmurs, absorbing the world around her, seemingly surprised that she’s still alive. Her hair decorates her face like curtains hiding the sight of her exhaustion, and the sliver of what you can see in-between strands is evidence of death looming over her. 

When you find your footing on this mountain of realization, you gently move strands of hair and tuck them in behind her ears, careful not to alter the tubes providing slivers of life into her body. Her eyes widen before she blinks. Once, twice.

“Oh, hi!”

Even though it’s soft, the afternoon sunlight spilling into the hospital room pales in comparison to her voice.

“Hello, MC.”

Your voice is colder in comparison. Like shards of ice sitting atop rooftops on snowy days, only melting when sunlight caresses them.

Despite that, a small smile appears on her face. You can see the battles she fights just to keep her eyes open, the efforts she places in keeping herself present in this conversation. You can see the happiness spilling out of her eyes at the sight of you.

If any drops of hatred still remained in your heart, then they all evaporated from the warmth of her compassion.

“You look familiar. H-have we met before?”

You can only nod because you have met her. It was during a dinner party celebrating the collaborations between Akso Hospital and the Hunter’s Association, and Zayne had introduced you to each other. You can still recall the smile on her face and her laughter that lit up the room. You can still recall how you were sitting on the table all night, sipping wine and conversing with almost nobody. You can still recall the jealousy that sprouted within you that night.

“Yes,” you manage to say. “We met at a dinner party.”

“Oh! You were the woman in the gold dress.” Her laugh is still so infectious, making a smile peek out of you despite the circumstances. “I was awestruck by you. I could hardly focus on anyone else that night.”

“Stop that,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand. “If any one of us was the light of that night, it would be you, MC.”

She shakes her head, her laugh still spilling out of her lips. You notice that her eyes have closed. “I highly doubt it. Was that the only time w-we met?”

In the literal sense, yes. That was the only time you’ve seen her, but it was enough for her to linger in your mind in every moment you shared with Zayne. When he comes home late from work. When he ends your calls abruptly with her as his excuse. When all of your dinner conversations are about treatments for Protocore Syndrome. When your relationship surrounded her needs and abandoned yours.

You swallow to push down the lump in your throat. “Yes. That was the only time we met.”

“Oh, I wish we could’ve talked more. I feel like we would’ve been great friends.” 

You stare at her saline bag as the liquid flows into her veins so you don’t have to see her expression when she hisses in pain. How does life consume a person so fully and manage to leave just as quickly?

And as you fix the blankets around her — still staring anywhere else but her face — you wonder how jealousy consumed you so fully yet managed to leave so quickly.

“Do I need to call a nurse-”

“No!” she exclaims, her breaths evening out into slow, painless waves. “I-I’m okay.”

You can finally look at her properly, but the sight of her small smile makes you wish you didn’t. You understand why Zayne would rather spend his time with her. While she can find the joys in everything, yours have died long before you met him, and who wouldn’t choose to bask in the light when given the chance?

Words perish in your throat. Everything and everybody seems to want to die today.

“How about you?” she interrupts. “Are you okay? You seem spaced out.”

You can only muster a small nod, because the words that refuse to spill out weigh too much for anyone to handle. 

“I don’t think you are. A penny for your thoughts?”

“I don’t have my coin purse at the moment,” you lie. The metaphorical bag sits in your heart, waiting to spill out, but MC is the last person you would want to open up to.

She simply hums and doesn’t push further, closing her eyes once more. If you allowed yourself to care more than you already do, you would comment on the sharpness of her breaths or soothe the lines of her forehead.

But weapons are more useful, so the elephant in the room is addressed.

“How has Zayne been treating you?” you ask.

She answers like she doesn’t notice the harshness in your tone. “Like a child. Always in my ass about things.”

I bet he is, you almost say, but you bite your tongue until you taste copper.

“He scolded me when my friend Tara bought me a plushie from the gift shop, saying my happiness would make my heart explode.”

“He did that?”

Zayne wouldn’t even notice if you brought home a plushie.

She nods, your heart almost as damaged as hers. “He’s also so stern and serious. You’d think he was the one dying with how cold he sounds. I don’t know how you deal with that.”

You don’t, not when he’s never home.

“And he’s very… smitten.”

That gets your attention. Your gaze shifts from her saline bag — half-empty, you note — to her face, her smile unsettling.

“Smitten by you, I assume?” you murmur. You clench your fists like a child about to cry, waiting for someone who can comfort you. 

The last thing you see before the loud flatline of the EKG is MC tilting her head, her brows furrowed.

Everything after that is a blur. Your voice echoes as you call for a nurse, a doctor, anybody to save her. The machine rings in your ears, quickly followed by voices, then by bodies, then…

“We’ll do our best, ma’am,” somebody assures, but it’s buried beneath harsh orders and beeping machines and everything that has weighed over you. You can only nod silently. You don’t know how you even managed that.

When you walk out of the room, the last thing you see is a familiar white coat bolting inside, and you almost wish you were the one dying.

“Water.”

Your hands are clammy under the bright hospital lights when you take the paper cup offered in front of your face. That familiar voice is here again, and if you were less disoriented, perhaps you would’ve addressed him nicely instead of saying nothing. 

You don’t drink the water. You don’t lift your head. You don’t do anything in hopes that Zayne would leave you alone.

But he doesn’t. He lingers like he doesn’t have ten thousand other things to do. Like he actually cares about you.

On another night, him staying this long would feel like a dream come true.

“Drink it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you retort, and you swear you hear him step back. Your voice is unrecognizable even to you, your anger familiar yet foreign in its current intensity. The water sloshes, close to being your next victim.

Zayne doesn’t say anything for a while, and neither do you. You finally take a sip of the water because your throat feels too constricted, and you need to speak if you’re going to tell him off.

The voices of passing nurses and wheeled IV poles are all the noises that sit between your silence. It reminds you that life is happening beyond your grudges, burdens, and anger.

It also reminds you that life can be taken away too, turning your grudges, burdens, and anger into regrets.

“Is she okay?” you ask, your voice just as soft as hers.

“Yes. The resuscitation was successful.”

You sigh of relief before taking another sip of water. Her heart is still beating. The woman you despise most is okay.

Good.

Your eyes are glued to his shoes. You’ve polished them thousands of times even though 24-hour shifts leave them dirty regardless. Such a Sisyphean curse to always care for someone who doesn’t feel the same.

But if he doesn’t care, why is he holding your hand?

Zayne’s touch lingers, only leaving when someone calls him, and even then you feel the remnants of it as he walks away with a soft “goodbye.”

You remind yourself that he doesn’t care. That he hasn’t put you first in forever. That he’s willing to leave you in your despair because there’s something and someone else more important to handle.

But as the water cools your burning tongue and your eyes dart from the ground to Zayne’s retreating back, you can’t get yourself to.

That night, you decide to leave.

Half-empty bags decorate your bedroom floor as you hastily shove anything and everything you might need for a future you don’t even want to live through. Shirts overflow from your backpack, dresses coat your luggage in pesky glitter, and the zipper works overtime as your items struggle to stay inside.

“Come on!” you scream when your zipper gives up, and you toss the damn thing across the room without considering where it may land.

And when it shatters one of Zayne’s ice sculptures, you find yourself too angry to care.

You’re leaving today. He won’t be able to break your heart anymore.

But as you throw your clothes onto a different luggage — one of his luggages, specifically — life seems to insult you even more. You find shirts that he never bothered to take out, his travel bag of toiletries that you packed for him, and a million other signs of your presence in his life.

They all get tossed on the bed that both of you are supposed to share as though they hold no value to you.

Your clothes fit the luggage this time, with even some room to add your thoughts and grievances you’ve carried in this entire relationship. How nice of the universe to grant you something so useless.

In the midst of tossing your toiletries in the spaces, your phone buzzes in your pocket. With frustration and no regard to whoever is on the other side of the line, you press the green button.

“Yes?”

The voice on the other side of the line, whom you recognize as Zayne’s coworker, asks if he’s calling the right person.

“That’s me. Why?”

“Dr. Zayne requests your presence.”

Your heart sinks, akin to the ice sculpture that fell from your nightstand. “Please tell him I’m occupied at the moment.”

Silence ensues for a few moments before the voice comes back.

“He would like a few seconds of your time, ma’am.”

“Tell him I don’t have that much to spare.”

Your toothbrush peeks out from the luggage as you zip it up, and you bite your lip to prevent any profanities from escaping. God, why is leaving so hard when the universe has been pushing you to do so for a while now?

“Please ma’am, he really wants to speak to you.”

You exhale sharply, hanging up before he can say another word. Before Zayne can speak and undo your decision with his voice alone. Before your doubts can creep up and push you to make the decision you have regretted making for years.

Your luggage finally closes. Years and years of the same chapter finally ends. Now all you need to do is to leave.

But your phone rings again.

When you pick up, it’s not his colleague that answers. 

“Are you all right?”

Zayne’s voice is soft, exhaustion coating every syllable. It reminds you of MC minutes before her cardiac arrest — like death has come for him too.

How odd that he would go to you in that circumstance.

“Does it matter?” you blurt out.

“Very much. I… I need to hear your voice.”

“Listen to your patients. I’m sure their voices are perfectly fine.” 

Your thumb lingers on the red phone button, ready to push it and end this useless conversation, but he always finds a way to stop you.

“Please.”

A plea.

Zayne has asked something from you.

It’s the first time you were met with anything other than his indifference. Of course, it wasn’t always like this, but you can’t recall the last time he had actually shown any emotion towards you.

Quiet meals, expected tasks, a broken home.

Those are all you know now.

Not the past full of flowers, devotion, and sweet nothings.

You end the call before any word spills out of your lips, your legs succumbing to heartbreak’s hands. Tears spill out and caress your face. Your luggage is the only witness.

Just like life, time passes amidst your despair, unwilling to wait for you to stand up. By the time you push yourself, footsteps echo into your bedroom, a familiar duffel bag falling to the ground.

Zayne stands there, alarmed, as he carries a bouquet of jasmines.

a/n: I love this prompt, but I am so repulsed by my writing style here lmao 😭 The next two chapters will be longer, more in-depth, and better written!

Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)