nikky ✮

Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.

Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.

The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.

The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.

This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.

You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.

As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.

Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.

You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.

At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.

And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.

Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.

The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.

On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:

For whenever you need a quiet place

— P.P

None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.

You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.

Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.

Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.

To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.

You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.

Your old high school.

There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.

You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.

You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.

The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.

You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.

You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.

You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.

You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.

You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.

Until the thread slacked.

In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.

In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.

Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.

You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.

That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.

“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”

You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”

You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?

You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.

You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.

You entered her mind a second later.

Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.

You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.

Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?

You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.

You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.

You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.

However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.

Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.

He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.

“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.

He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.

You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.

From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.

Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.

He looked up and answered.

It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.

Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.

It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.

That was why you had gone there. To find him.

Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.

He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.

He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.

You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.

Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.

He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.

A memory flashed into your mind.

The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.

“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.

“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.

“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”

“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”

You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.

“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.

“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“They'll say you're a distraction.”

At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.

“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.

“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”

Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.

“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”

“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”

“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”

“You worry too much about the future.”

“And you don't?”

“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”

The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.

The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.

You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.

You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.

And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.

Why on earth was this happening to you?

“Hey,” you suddenly heard.

You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”

“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.

Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.

He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”

“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.

An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.

“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”

“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”

“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”

He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.

“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”

You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.

He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.

“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.

Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.

“And for how long will it be?”

“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”

In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.

“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.

His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.

“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”

You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.

“If you want to go, of course.”

“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.

You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.

“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”

He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.

“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”

You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.

“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”

A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.

It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.

You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.

To him.

You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.

When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.

Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.

“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.

But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.

You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.

Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.

One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:

Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?

No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.

“You seem strange,” he said.

The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”

But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.

“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.

“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.

His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.

“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”

“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”

“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”

His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.

Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.

“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”

“I know.”

He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.

Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.

Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?

Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.

With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.

You began erasing yourself.

You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.

You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.

Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.

Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.

You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter. That was his name.

“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”

You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.

An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?

“Do you need me to call someone?”

You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.

He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.

From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.

“No,” you managed to reply.

Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.

Then you walked out. Without looking back.

“well obviously not here.” mal mumbled. evie turned around and shot her friend a warning glare before answering ben.

“we don’t know...” she looked desperately at him, her shoulders slumping slightly as she sighed.

ben held a blank stare. he looked lost, like he didn’t quite understand what he was told. “what do you mean you don’t know?” he asked, his eyes darting between each of his friends.

carlos cut in. “we’ve searched the entire campus and found no sign of her.” he looked between evie and ben as he answered, equally as worried.

“she texted me saying she was going on a walk to clear her mind. she hasn’t answered any of my calls or replied to my texts since.” evie added.

ben couldn’t decipher any thought that was going through his mind. his ears started ringing. only a couple minutes left until midnight and his girlfriend had simply vanished. his thoughts ran wild, yet they all circled back to one truth: it was all his fault.

he closed his eyes, trying to drown out the world around him, feeling a force, threatening to take advantage of his state and let loose.

evie moved without a single word, her touch light yet steady on his shoulder, taking him out of it. his chest heaved, breath catching on something he couldn’t name.

“she’s been worried sick about you, ben.” evie started, her eyes searching his face. “she really likes you, you know that? she keeps saying how she wants to talk and sort things out. it’s killing her that you’ve been pushing her away.”

ben’s heart ached at evie’s words. he knew he had hurt you. distancing himself from you was one of the hardest things he ever had to do. but at the time, he thought that he couldn’t do it any other way.

you first noticed something was possibly wrong when he would blow things out of proportion. as if he had become a perfectionist overnight, the littlest of details made him tick and kept him tossing and turning at night. it was so unlike him to act this way.

still, you let him be. ben was the most straightforward person you knew, if he ever needed help with something, he’d come to you to talk about it, the way he’s always done. at least that’s what you thought.

one weekend, while he was staying at his parents castle, something growled to no end in his bedroom. it wasn’t him— or rather he didn’t want it to be. he didn’t remember what happened that night. all he knew, was that he felt lighter afterwards. his mother had heard him, though. always being on the lookout, she ran to his room and as soon as she saw the fangs and the long nails, she knew. she’d seen this before.

ben quickly came to understand what happened that night, his father being quite helpful with filling in the blanks. he hated sharing this in common with him, though. it was basically like granting his father the right to think that they were one and the same, which ben tirelessly tried to disprove ever since he became aware of his father’s ways. he was aware that a transformation like the one he experienced could happen, being warned about it very young. however, he never thought it would happen so soon.

as he started imagining his life with this new aspect, the thought of you crept up in his mind. if he ever lost his mind in your presence and harmed you in any way, he would never forgive himself.

ensued a week and a half of ben ignoring you the best he could, missing lunch and classes, hoping he wouldn’t run into you.

at least, when he pushed you away, it was hurt that he could control. however it was wrong.

it was funny how ben had spent so long convincing himself and everyone else that he wasn’t like his father and yet, there he was, behaving just like him.

only now, you were missing and ben didn’t know what to do. were you hurt? were you still in auradon? he couldn’t protect you. the perspective of you being out there, alone? it terrified him. he had to find a solution. he had to find you.

he absentmindedly fiddled with his family ring for a bit before having the semblance of a plan. he needed to act as the leader he’d been taught to be if he wanted any kind of result. “okay, evie? i’m gonna need you to try the phone again—”

evie typed your phone number on her phone for what felt like the millionth time when mal cut ben off.

“ben we’ve already tried this.” mal sighed, “maybe it’s time we give her her space.”

ben’s voice came out strained as he snapped back at mal. he would never stop trying for you. “her space? she’s missing, mal! and i just can’t sit back and do nothing while she’s out here, possibly hurt or—” he exhaled deeply, the thought too painful to finish. his jaw was clenched tight as his eyes closed by themselves. he was doing everything in his power not to succumb to the dark forceful force within him begging him to give in, but it was getting harder as each minute passed, the last bit of composure he had slipping through his fingers.

he ran a hand through his hair, his mind torturing him with the worst case scenarios. “i CAN’T, okay??” he raised his voice in both frustration and as an attempt to quiet his mind. the three looked up at him. this wasn’t the usually calm and collected ben they knew.

he sat on the edge of a bed, burying his face in his hands as he groaned, the situation heavily weighing on him.

“i love her. and i know that pushing her away was the wrong thing to do and it ended up doing more harm than good. i thought i was keeping her safe.” he shook his head, “i should’ve been honest with her from the start but i can’t…i can’t let anything happen to her, especially not because of me.” his voice wavered again, his emotions overwhelming him.

“she’s my world, mal. i love her more than anything.” he concluded firmly as he stared into space.

evie’s gaze lifted from ben to the doorway. she couldn’t help the smirk forming on her lips. “i think she knows ben.”

“still, she deserved better than what i gave her, evie. it’s all—”

“no, ben..” evie insisted as she looked at him and back in the direction of the doorway, “she knows.”

ben looked up and followed evie’s gaze and here you were, standing in the doorway like a deer in headlights. he stood up immediately and opened his mouth to say something but the words escaped him. your presence was enough to still the storm of emotion raging inside of him.

“y/n.” his eyes never left your face as a mix of relief and trepidation washed over him. he ached to close the distance between you but he was frozen in place, only thing he could do was drink in the sight of you.

“you’re…you’re here.” ben continued.

you nodded, taking tiny tentative steps into the room. “yeah, evie called and never hung up.”

ben’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of your voice, his gaze flicking to evie. he tried to think about the implications of you hearing everything he just said but he was hypnotized by your presence and just as quickly his attention was back on you, the only person that mattered at the moment.

“you’re here…you’re okay. thank god, you’re okay.” ben didn’t trust himself to speak for much longer, opting instead to act on the feelings of raw need and lack that had been eating away at him for the past week. so without a second thought, he ran to you, and in one swift movement, he cupped your face with his hands, his lips finding yours.

the kiss was urgent and needy, a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that ben had been holding onto. his touch was desperate yet gentle, and he pulled you so close that it felt like the world around you disappeared. his only focus was you— the girl he was so desperate to protect, even if it was from himself. he needed to show you how very sorry he was, how much he ached for you.

his hands roamed over your body, holding you like he never wanted to let go of you again. the world started spinning again when he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. you could feel the profound relief in the way his arms engulfed you.

“i thought i’d lost you.” he whispered as his forehead rested on yours, his voice thick with emotion. “i’m so sorry y/n—”

carlos cut ben off to say that evie, mal and him would leave you to reunite in private. which, of course, left a very confused mal to whisper things like isn’t it our dorm? why should we leave? while evie was dragging her on their way out.

you rubbed circles on his wrists with your thumbs, thinking about what you would say to him. after your long walk, you had come back with a clearer head. your mind was no longer clouded by your sadness or anger. for the past week or so, you thought that you’d lost your boyfriend and evie’s call only proved that he was still there, he just needed some help.

“i just want to know if you meant what you said to mal.” you simply said.

ben pulled away just enough to look into your eyes. he understood that you needed reassurance, that the uncertainty had been eating at you just as much as it had been eating at him. he used his index finger to make you look at him, his voice soft and sincere.

“i meant every word. i’ve been trying to tell you for a while, but i was scared. most of all, i was stupid." he paused, gathering his thoughts. his eyes never once left yours though, he was continuously boring into them. “i messed up, big time. i thought the only way i could protect you was by keeping you away from me.” ben took a deep breath before speaking again, his voice firm yet soft, “i was scared, scared that i’d lose you, scared that i’d hurt you. but i realize now that i should’ve told you everything. and for that, i am so, so sorry.”

ben took a deep breath before carrying on.

"i love you, more deeply than i ever thought i could love someone. and when i thought that i had lost you tonight i—" the emotions threatened to overwhelm him once again when he thought about it. when his breath came out shaky and you noticed it, you took his face in your hands, so he would focus on your words.

“then i don’t need to know anything else, ben. i’m here for you and i know we’ll get through this if you love me, and i love you.”

your words acted as a soothing balm on ben’s worried mind, miraculously ending the battle he’d been fighting against himself. with a relieved sigh, ben pulled you close once again. you were his peace, the secret to keeping it all together.

“you’re right, and i promise, no more secrets and no more shutting you out. i’m not letting you go ever again.” he whispered, his forehead against yours.

the night continued with quiet yet heartfelt talks, expressing feelings that had longed to be spoken aloud. ben finally told you about the night at the castle, his fears and his hopes. and you didn’t run away immediately like he thought you would. no, you stayed and made a promise to help him embrace this side of him.

the engine idles low and smooth. his car smells like leather and that cologne he wears. woodsy, expensive. it always clings to your clothes hours later, and you can already tell it’s settling into the silk of your dress, into your hair. 

you know you'll have to change the second you get inside. hide the dress in the back of your closet behind the winter coats. take off the bracelet and tuck it into the velvet box at the bottom of your jewelry drawer, under the tangle of cheap necklaces from high school.

the dashboard clock reads 1:47 AM. your dad's alarm goes off at six. four hours and thirteen minutes.

you should go, you know you should. your hand rests on the door handle, cool metal against your palm, but you don't pull it. it feels like cement under your fingers and your throat feels dry.

"you're stalling."

his voice cuts through the quiet, low and amused, and heat crawls up the back of your neck. you don't look at him yet.

"i'm not."

"yeah?" there's a smile in his voice that feels smug and knowing, teasing. "then why are you still here?"

you twist the hem of the silk dress between your fingers—the one he’d handed you through the passenger window two nights ago with nothing but a “wear this friday.” it's way too nice. more expensive than any article of clothing you’d ever owned. the fabric is cool and slippery against your fingertips, the kind of material that catches on rough skin. nothing like the cotton sundresses hanging in your childhood closet.

"i'm going," you say, but you still don't move.

rafe shifts in his seat, the leather creaking softly beneath him. you can feel him looking at you now, that burning attention that makes your skin prickle. he doesn't push. he just waits.

finally, you glance over.

he's leaning back against the driver's seat, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the fabric perfectly pressed even this late. there's that faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. the dashboard light catches the edge of his jaw, the shadow of stubble there.

"what?" you ask, defensive.

"nothing." his eyes drop to the bracelet on your wrist, then back to your face. the gold catches the light. "just wondering how long you're gonna sit there pretending you wanna leave."

heat crawls up your neck. "i'm not—"

"you are."

"i’m just… savoring it."

"come here." he says it like he already knows you’ll listen. and you do.

you unbuckle your seatbelt, the click loud in the quiet, and shift across the center console, awkward in the cramped space, your knee bumping the gearshift. his hands come up immediately, steadying you, guiding you until you're curled against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. his watch presses cool against your shoulder blade through the thin silk.

his arms close around you. the tension in your shoulders releases all at once.

"there," he murmurs.

you close your eyes and breathe him in. the smell of his cologne has already settled into your dress, but this close, you can still find the warmth of his skin beneath it. his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head keeping you tucked against him.

"better?" he asks.

"yeah."

"good."

you let yourself sink into him. somewhere beneath the cologne, you catch the smell of laundry detergent and clean cotton. your cheek presses into the soft fabric of his shirt, and for a little while, neither of you says anything. outside, the neighborhood is asleep. yellow streetlights, sprinklers spraying, nothing moving.

"you looked really pretty tonight," he says after a moment, quieter now.

your face heats. "you already told me that."

"i know." his hand slides down to your wrist, fingers hooking under the bracelet. the metal is warm now from your skin. "doesn't make it less true."

you press your face into his chest, hiding. the fabric of his shirt is soft, expensive. it probably costs more than most things you own.

he huffs a quiet laugh. "shy now?"

"shut up."

"mm." his fingers trace the gold links, one by one. "you're gonna take this off the second you get inside, aren't you?"

you feel the guilt twist in your stomach and you pull back slightly to look at him. "you know why…."

"it's fine." he's smirking again, but there's something sharper underneath. "hide it in that jewelry box. i get it."

"it's not—" you start, but you don't know how to finish. it's not that i don't want them to see. it's that i can't explain where it came from. can't explain you. you glance up at him, the corner of your mouth tugging into a reluctant smile. “you make it sound like i’m hiding evidence.”

he watches you for a second, amusement flickering across his face. “aren’t you?” 

your eyes drift past his shoulder to the dashboard again. 

2:03.

you try not to think about everything that comes next. shoes off at the door. skip the third step so it doesn’t creak. hold your breath past your parents’ room. don’t let the bedroom door click shut—

he tilts his head, studying you. "look at me."

you do. his eyes are dark in the low light, almost black.

"you worry too much," he says, and his hand moves to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "they're asleep. you're here. we're good, alright?"

"i know, but—"

"but nothing." his voice drops lower. "stop thinking about the clock."

you try, you really do. but then you start counting. fifteen minutes. ten. five. and then you’ll have to leave him again. climb out of his truck and disappear back into your parents’ house. watch him drive away alone.

"hey." his thumb presses gently into your chin, pulling your focus back. "where’d you go?"

"nowhere. i'm here."

"you sure?"

you nod and he searches your face for another moment, his gaze is steady.

"good." he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. then your temple. the corner of your mouth. each one so carefully placed and unhurried. you go still.

"rafe—"

"what?" he murmurs against your skin.

"i should—"

"should what?" he pulls back just enough to look at you. "go back inside?"

the words hit harder than they should. you look away, focusing on the stitching of his collar.

"i just…” you swallow. “i wish i could…”

he's quiet for a moment. his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.

"i know, baby," he says finally. “not yet."

not yet. like it's inevitable. like it's just a matter of time. like one day you'll walk through his front door and stay. and maybe it is.

"but one day," he says, quieter now. "you're gonna wake up beside me and you won't have to leave."

god, you want that so badly it scares you.

to fall asleep with your head on his chest and wake up there too. to feel him pulling you closer before either of you says good morning. to hide your face in his neck while he laughs quietly and kisses your hair. to stay exactly where you are because there’d be nowhere else you had to be. 

"yeah," you whisper.

his eyes flick back to yours. "yeah?"

"yeah."

his hand tightens slightly in your hair, and then he's kissing you.

it's soft at first. but then you make a small sound and pull him closer, your fingers curling into his shirt, and he groans low in his throat. you taste the whiskey from dinner on his breath, warm and sharp, and it makes your head spin.

his hand slides down your back, pressing you against him, and you arch into it. his other hand finds your thigh, fingers splaying wide through the silk. the cool metal of his watch presses against your ribs as he pulls you closer.

"c'mere, sweetheart." he murmurs against your mouth. "closer."

you still weren't used to hearing him call you sweetheart. the first time he did, you'd looked over your shoulder because you were sure he couldn't have been talking to you.

you shift closer, your knee pressing into the seat beside his hip. all you can focus on is him. the crispness of his shirt beneath your palms, the weight of his hand at your waist, the warmth of his body.

you kiss him harder, more desperately, your hands sliding up to his hair. your fingers rest in it, tugging slightly, and he makes a low sound, his hand tightening to an almost bruising grip on your hip.

"jesus…" he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. the blue of his eyes is almost gone, swallowed by his pupils in the dark. "look at you."

you can't say anything. can't think. you just pull him back down, kissing him like you're running out of time. his hand slides higher on your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and you gasp into his mouth.

"easy, baby," he murmurs, but there's a smile in his voice. "we've got time."

"do we?" you ask breathlessly, and he laughs—a real laugh, quiet and warm.

"yeah. we do."

he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, his hand cradling the back of your head. you’re still gripping his shirt, still not ready to let go. you can feel his heart pounding beneath your palm, as fast as yours.

his hand settles at the small of your back before you realize you’ve started to pull away.

you don’t.

“stay a little longer,” he says quietly. “just… twenty more minutes. please.” 

"okay," you whisper, nodding softly.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

he says nothing after that. just pulls you back against him, like the conversation never needed another word. you don't say anything either. just hold him tighter. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and you settle into the space beneath his chin, your dress bunched awkwardly around your legs, his jacket sleeve cool against your bare arm. for the first time all night, you stop thinking about getting home. 

the minutes tick by too fast. the clock on the dashboard glows 2:28, then 2:29. the numbers feel accusatory.

"i really should go," you whisper eventually, even though the words hurt.

his arms tighten around you for just a second before he forces himself to let go.

"i know."

you pull back to look at him. his jaw is tight. his eyes don't leave your face.

he cups your face in both hands and kisses your forehead. soft. lingering. his lips warm against your skin.

"text me when you're inside," he says.

"i will."

"good girl."

you feel heat spread across your cheeks and he smirks, satisfied.

he helps you out of the car, his hand steadying you at the small of your back. the night air is cold against your skin, sharp after the warmth of the car, and you shiver. goosebumps rise on your arms.

he notices immediately.

he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, even though you're only walking a block. it's warm from his body, smells like him, heavy with the weight of expensive fabric. the sleeves hang past your hands.

"rafe, you don't have to—"

"go," he says, nodding toward your house. the porch light is still on. "before i change my mind."

you smile despite yourself. he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw.

but you don't move.

your feet stay planted on the pavement. his jacket heavy on your shoulders, and you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your waist.

he notices. just like he notices everything else about you. his gaze settles on your hands, twisting the sleeve of his jacket.

"you don't wanna go."

it's not a question.

you look up at him and your throat feels tight. you shake your head, just barely.

a few months ago, you would’ve laughed at yourself. you weren’t usually like this. usually saying goodbye was just that—a goodbye. somehow, with him, it always felt like you were leaving something behind.

"c'mere," he murmurs. he doesn’t wait for you to close the distance this time. one hand cups your chin, pulling it up closer to him, and the other settles at your waist before his mouth finds yours again.

you kiss him back, your hand resting against his chest, and when he pulls away his forehead stays pressed to yours. you’d kiss him forever and ever if you could. 

"you gotta go, baby," he whispers. his voice is rough.

"i know."

but neither of you moves. his hands slide down your arms and he squeezes once.

"i’ll see you tomorrow night, alright?" he says.

you nod. your throat is too tight to speak.

"good girl," he murmurs against your hair.

he kisses your forehead. then your temple. then the corner of your mouth. lingering. gentle.

finally, he steps back, his hands falling away from your arms and the cold air rushes in where he was.

you turn and start walking, and you can feel his eyes on you the entire way. the sidewalk is uneven under your heels. his jacket hangs heavy on your shoulders. you don't look back yet because if you do, you'll turn around.

when you reach your front door, you glance back. he's still there, leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting. making sure you get inside safe.

you slip inside as quietly as you can. the house is dark and silent. the floorboards don't creak. you hold your breath as you pass your parents' bedroom door.

you pull out your phone: inside. safe.

his response comes immediately: good. sleep well, baby. dream about me.

you smile, hiding his jacket in the back of your closet and the bracelet in your jewelry box. the silk dress gets hung carefully on a padded hanger.

tomorrow you'll see him again and for now, that's enough.