#hazelira

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requested by @jaehyunsss (since March 22nd, 2026) - "I would love to see how they raise her"

The cemetery doesn’t end when the service does.

It follows you home.

It follows in the silence of the car ride, where Sunoo holds his niece in the backseat like she might disappear if his grip loosens even a millimetre. She falls asleep halfway through the drive, still clutching a wilted handful of petals, cheek pressed against his chest as it belongs there. Like grief is something soft enough to rest on.

You watch them in the rearview mirror.

Sunoo doesn’t move the entire ride.

Not when the traffic lights change. Not when you turn onto your street. Not even when you park.

Only when you say his name softly does he blink, like he’s been underwater.

“We’re home,” you whisper.

Home.

The word feels strange in your mouth now.

Because nothing about your apartment was ever meant to hold this much loss.

The first night is chaos disguised as silence.

Sunoo refuses to put her down.

Every time you suggest the bed, his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for another burial. “If I let go,” he says quietly, “what if she thinks I left too?”

So he sits on the couch with her curled against him, small hand fisted in his shirt, even in sleep. The TV is on, but neither of you is watching. It’s just noise, something to keep the house from swallowing you whole.

You sit beside him, close enough that your knee touches his.

At some point, he speaks into the dark.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

His voice is flat. Not broken anymore. Worse, emptied.

You don’t pretend to misunderstand him. “Then we learn.”

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it dies halfway. “She asked me if they were playing.”

You remember that moment too vividly. The petals. The coffin. The way innocence collided with something too heavy to survive it.

“I know,” you say.

“I lied,” he adds.

You turn your head toward him. In the dim light, his face looks older than it did yesterday.

“She’ll understand later,” you say carefully.

“That’s the problem,” he whispers. “She shouldn’t have to.”

Silence stretches.

The kind that doesn’t feel empty, but full of everything you’re both trying not to say.

Finally, you lean your shoulder into his.

“We can’t fix what happened,” you say. “But we can make sure she never feels alone in it.”

Sunoo doesn’t answer.

But his hand finds yours.

And holds on.

The first week is measured in small disasters.

She wakes up crying at 3 a.m. because she dreamed her mother couldn’t find her shoes.

She refuses to eat anything that isn’t shaped like a flower.

She asks where Mama’s voice went and presses her ear to the walls, as if she might hear it echo back.

Each time, Sunoo breaks a little differently.

Sometimes he freezes, staring like he’s been asked a question in a language he used to know but forgot overnight.

Sometimes he runs to her too fast, scoops her up too tightly, as he can physically shield her from grief itself.

And sometimes—when it’s too much—he sits on the kitchen floor afterward, hands trembling, staring at nothing.

That’s when you sit beside him again.

You don’t always speak.

Sometimes you hand him water.

Sometimes you breathe beside him so he remembers how.

The first time she laughs again is not planned.

It happens three days later when Sunoo accidentally burns pancakes and tries to salvage them by cutting them into star shapes.

They are not stars.

They are sad, uneven pieces of regret.

But she giggles anyway.

“Samchon Noo is a bad chef!” she announces proudly.

Sunoo freezes mid-flip.

You see it happen, the way something inside him catches, unsure whether it’s allowed to exist again.

Then, slowly, carefully, like stepping onto thin ice, he smiles.

It’s small.

It’s fragile.

But it’s real.

“You’re fired,” he tells her solemnly.

She gasps dramatically. “I’m the boss now!”

And just like that, the kitchen isn’t a place of grief for a moment.

It’s just breakfast.

Burnt, imperfect, alive.

Nights are still the hardest.

Because when the world is quiet, there’s nothing left to distract from what’s missing.

One night, you wake up to find Sunoo standing by the window.

He’s holding her blanket in both hands.

“She didn’t call for them today,” he says without turning around.

You sit up slowly. “That’s good.”

“No,” he corrects softly. “It’s not. It means she’s starting to forget their voices.”

His reflection in the glass looks like someone trying not to fall apart.

You come up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He leans back instantly, like his body has been waiting for permission to collapse into you.

“She won’t forget,” you say. “Not really.”

Sunoo shakes his head once. “I don’t want her to forget. But I also don’t want her to hurt every time she remembers.”

“That’s the part we figure out,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes.

“I’m scared I’m not enough,” he admits.

The words are so quiet you almost miss them.

But they land heavy anyway.

You tighten your arms around him.

“You’re not doing this alone,” you say.

A pause.

Then, softer: “Neither is she.”

The first time she calls you Mama is accidental.

It slips out while she’s showing you a drawing, three stick figures, one tall, one medium, one small, all holding hands under a sun that looks too big for the page.

You freeze.

Sunoo freezes harder.

She doesn’t notice at first, keeps pointing proudly. “That’s you! And Samchon! And me!”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“Sweetheart,” you start carefully, “I’m—”

But Sunoo steps closer, gently crouching in front of her.

“What did you call her?” he asks softly.

She tilts her head. “Mama.”

A beat.

Then she frowns. “Is that bad?”

Sunoo’s expression cracks right down the middle.

And then he pulls her into his arms so fast she squeaks in surprise.

“No,” he says immediately, voice shaking. “No, it’s not bad.”

He presses his face into her hair for a moment, breathing her in like he’s grounding himself.

“It’s just… We’ll decide what feels right, okay?”

She nods, already distracted again, humming to herself.

You watch Sunoo carefully set her down afterward, hands lingering a second too long like he’s afraid letting go will undo something fragile.

Later, when she’s asleep, he sits beside you on the floor.

“I didn’t expect that to hurt so much,” he says quietly.

You lean your head against his shoulder. “Because it means she’s attaching to us.”

He doesn’t respond immediately.

Then, barely audible: “We’re really becoming her parents.”

It isn’t a question.

It’s a realization.

A quiet surrender.

You nod.

“Yes,” you say. “We are.”

Months pass in uneven ways.

Some days feel like healing.

Some feel like survival.

She starts school. Loses her first tooth. Learns how to tie her shoes badly and proudly insists she doesn’t need help.

Sunoo learns how to pack lunches without crying into the containers.

You learn how to answer questions like Why don’t I have baby pictures with Mama and Dada anymore? without breaking in front of her.

And slowly, painfully, something new forms in the space the grief carved out.

Not replacement.

Never that.

But continuation.

One evening, you find Sunoo and her asleep on the couch again. Her head on his chest. His hand was resting protectively on her back.

A half-finished drawing sits on the table.

Three stick figures again.

But this time, four hands are holding on.

And a little note underneath, written in uneven letters: family.

You stand there for a long time.

Because the truth is no longer something you’re discovering.

It’s something you’re living.

The petals don’t fall anymore.

But sometimes, in spring, when the wind moves just right, Sunoo still looks up like he expects them to.

And when he does, you squeeze his hand.

And he squeezes back.

And she laughs in the next room, alive and unknowing,

And that, somehow, becomes enough to keep going.

Copyright 2026 - present © hazelira all rights reserved. All writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.

1.5k+ of you?? 🥹

I honestly don't know what to say other than thank you. When I started posting my writing, I never imagined this many people would choose to stick around, read my stories, scream with me over fictional heartbreak, or trust me with your time and emotions. Every follow, like, reblog, comment, ask, and kind message means so much more than you probably realize. Knowing that my words have made some of you laugh, cry, or feel understood is the biggest compliment I could ever receive as a writer.

Thank you for giving my stories a home and for making this little corner of Tumblr feel so welcoming. I'm endlessly grateful for every single one of you. Here's to more angst, more comfort, more late-night writing sessions, and probably... many more tears. (I'm sowy in advance (づ_ど)) Thank you for 1.5k+. I appreciate you all more than words can say.

idea inspired by @luv4lhs - heeseung college boyfriend au vibe. we all eat lies when our hearts are hungry. his Adam's apple, his gf would love to leave kisses all over, cough cough me. faye's note: I'm sowy, but you're all going to suffer 🥹

Everyone says heartbreak makes you wiser.

I think that’s a lie we tell ourselves because the truth is too cruel.

The truth is that sometimes heartbreak makes you hungry.

Hungry enough to eat every excuse someone gives you. Hungry enough to mistake crumbs for a feast. Hungry enough to call a ghost a home because admitting you’re alone feels like freezing in the middle of winter with no coat and nowhere to go.

I learned that in college.

I learned that love could look like late-night study sessions and stolen hoodies. It could look like someone remembering how you take your coffee, even when you forget to eat breakfast. It could look like walking across campus at midnight just because he wanted to see you for five minutes.

And maybe that was the cruellest part.

Because when someone gives you something that feels like forever, you start believing forever is something they can actually promise.

He was my favourite place.

Not a location. Not a dorm room or a corner of the library where we used to sit together until closing.

Him.

His laugh when he tried not to laugh. The way his hair fell into his eyes when he was concentrating. The way his Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed words he didn’t know how to say.

God, his Adam’s apple.

It sounds ridiculous now, how my heart could memorize something so small.

But that’s how love works, isn’t it?

You collect tiny pieces of someone until they become your entire universe.

I used to joke that I could recognize him anywhere.

I wasn’t lying.

Even in a crowded hallway filled with hundreds of students rushing to class, I could find him. I could recognize his footsteps. His voice. The shape of his shoulders.

My heart knew him before my mind did.

And maybe that was the problem.

My heart was always faster than reality.

The first lie I swallowed was small.

“I’m just busy.”

Everyone gets busy.

College is stressful. Exams happen. Deadlines happen. Life happens.

So when his replies became shorter, when our conversations became something I had to beg for, when good morning turned into silence, I convinced myself it wasn’t happening.

Because the alternative hurt too much.

Sometimes the truth is a poison you refuse to drink.

Sometimes you’d rather sip from a cup labelled maybe.

Maybe he’s tired.

Maybe he’s overwhelmed.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll come back.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll look at me the way he used to.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop feeling like I’m chasing someone who is already walking away.

The heart is a dangerous thing when it’s starving.

It will eat anything.

Even lies.

A year passed.

That’s what everyone told me mattered.

A year is enough time to move on.

As if time were a magic spell.

As if twelve months could erase the way someone’s hand felt intertwined with yours. As if seasons changing meant your body forgot the warmth of another person.

People thought I was okay because I stopped talking about him.

They didn’t know silence was just another way of missing someone.

They didn’t know I still checked places we used to go.

They didn’t know I still noticed songs he would have liked.

They didn’t know I had built an entire invisible house inside myself where I kept waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.

A house made of memories.

A house made of almosts.

A house where every room had his name written on the walls.

I hated that I still remembered his face.

Not because it was difficult.

Because it was easy.

Too easy.

Some people leave and become strangers.

He left and became a haunting.

I wondered if he ever walked through campus and thought of me.

If he ever passed the café where we had our first date, he would remember how nervous I was.

If he ever saw someone wearing a hoodie like mine and had that painful little second where his brain searched for me.

I wondered if I existed somewhere inside his memories the way he existed inside mine.

Or maybe I was just a chapter he finished reading.

Maybe he closed the book and never looked back.

The worst part about losing someone is not losing them.

It’s losing the version of yourself that existed with them.

I missed the girl who believed she was chosen.

I missed the girl who looked at him and thought, This is it.

The girl who didn’t know love could end.

The girl who thought that if you loved someone enough, they would stay.

She was naive.

But she was happy.

And sometimes I think happiness is just ignorance wearing a pretty dress.

Because the moment you know too much, the world becomes heavier.

Too much truth ruins your sleep.

You lie awake wondering which memories were real.

Was he pretending?

Was I imagining it?

Did he love me?

Or did I love him enough for both of us?

Then I saw him again.

A random afternoon.

A crowded hallway.

A cruel little coincidence.

He looked older.

Not different.

That would have been easier.

No.

He looked like the same person my heart had been waiting for.

And that was unfair.

Because my heart didn’t care about endings.

My heart didn’t care about dignity.

It saw him and immediately reached for the past.

Like a thirsty person finding a bottle in the desert.

Like someone who forgot poison could still look like water.

“Hey,” he said.

One word.

One stupid, simple word.

And suddenly I was nineteen again.

Suddenly, I remembered every reason I loved him.

The way he smiled when he was nervous.

The way his eyes softened when he looked at me.

The way I wanted to kiss every apology he never gave.

Especially when he stood there close enough that I noticed the familiar movement of his throat when he swallowed.

My heart whispered:

Come home.

My mind whispered:

Remember what happened.

“I thought you hated me,” he said quietly.

I laughed, but there was no humour in it.

"Hate would’ve been easier."

His expression changed.

Because he understood.

Finally.

“I missed you.”

Three words.

Three dangerous words.

Because some words are knives disguised as flowers.

I wanted to believe him.

God, I wanted to.

A hungry heart doesn’t ask if the meal is healthy.

It just wants to stop hurting.

But I had spent a year learning how to survive without him.

I had spent a year picking myself up from the pieces he left behind.

And I couldn’t go back to being someone who begged to be loved.

“I missed you, too,” I admitted.

Because honesty was all I had left.

“But missing you doesn’t mean I should return to the place where I lost myself.”

He looked away.

And for the first time, I saw it.

The sadness.

The regret.

The realization that love can exist and still not be enough.

Maybe that was the lesson.

Maybe some people are not meant to be forever.

Maybe some people are meant to show you how deeply you can feel.

How much can you give?

How beautifully your heart can break and still keep beating.

I still miss him.

I probably always will.

Some people leave fingerprints on your soul.

But I don’t build houses for ghosts anymore.

I don’t drink poison just because I’m thirsty.

I don’t swallow every lie my loneliness offers me.

Because my heart deserves more than illusions.

It deserves a love that stays.

A love that chooses me when things become difficult.

A love that doesn’t make me wonder if I’m worth keeping.

Maybe one day I’ll hear his name, and it won’t hurt.

Maybe one day I’ll remember his face and only feel gratitude.

But for now?

I carry the memory carefully.

Not like a wound.

Like a letter from someone I used to know.

A reminder that once, I loved someone so much I thought losing them would destroy me.

And somehow…

I survived.

Even if a small part of me still wonders:

What if he misses me, too?

What if somewhere, in another version of this life, he stayed?

What if we were never meant to be a lesson?

What if we were supposed to be home?

But some questions are just beautiful ways of keeping yourself trapped.

And I have spent enough time waiting in a house built from yesterday.

So I close the door.

Not because I stopped loving him.

But because I finally learned something:

A heart can be hungry.

A heart can be lonely.

A heart can crave what hurt it.

But a heart can also learn the difference between love…

and something that only looks like it.

(His POV)

I used to think leaving was the hardest thing I would ever do.

I was wrong.

Leaving was easy.

The days after were impossible.

Because when you leave someone, you imagine freedom.

You imagine quiet.

You imagine waking up one morning and suddenly not remembering the way they looked at you.

You imagine their name becoming just another word.

A sound without weight.

But nobody tells you that some people don’t leave your life.

They move into the walls.

They become the song playing quietly in the background of every ordinary day.

They become the reason certain streets feel haunted.

The reason a coffee shop smells like a memory.

The reason you see someone laughing from across the campus and your heart betrays you before your mind can remind you:

You lost her.

I told myself I left because I was scared.

That was the pretty version.

The version that made me look like someone who had a reason.

The truth?

I was selfish.

I wanted the comfort of being loved without carrying the responsibility of loving her back the way she deserved.

She gave me a home, and I treated it like a hotel.

I came whenever I wanted warmth.

I left whenever I felt too much.

And she waited.

God, she waited.

That was the part I hated most.

Not because she waited for me.

Because I let her.

I still remember the first time I noticed how much she loved me.

It wasn’t some grand moment.

It wasn’t during our first kiss or some dramatic confession under the stars.

It was something stupid.

Something small.

I was sitting across from her in the library, pretending to study while she highlighted notes she would never look at again.

She looked up and smiled.

Not because I said something funny.

Not because I did anything.

She just looked at me like she was lucky.

Like I was something precious.

And I remember thinking:

How did I become someone’s favourite person?

The terrifying thing about being loved is realizing someone has handed you something fragile.

Something you can destroy.

She used to tease me about my habits.

The way I ran my hand through my hair when I was stressed.

The way I tapped my fingers against tables when I was thinking.

The way she always noticed my Adam’s apple moving whenever I lied.

“You know,” she once whispered, tracing her fingers lightly over my throat, “your face gives you away.”

I laughed.

I kissed her forehead.

I told her she was imagining things.

But she wasn’t.

She always knew.

She knew when I was sad before I admitted it.

She knew when I was pulling away before I even started walking.

She knew me.

Maybe that was why I ran.

Because being loved by someone who truly sees you is terrifying.

There’s nowhere to hide.

A year later, I saw her again.

And I hated how quickly my body remembered her.

Before my brain could catch up, my heart had already recognized her.

The way she stood.

The way she held her bag.

The tiny crease between her eyebrows when she was thinking.

A year passed, and somehow she still looked like the person I left behind.

Except she didn’t.

That was the cruellest part.

She looked stronger.

Like she had learned how to exist without me.

Like she had built a life where my absence wasn’t the center of everything.

And I hated that.

Not because I wanted her miserable.

Because some selfish, ugly part of me wanted proof that I mattered.

I wanted to know I had ruined her the way she had ruined me.

“Hey.”

That was all I said.

One word.

A pathetic little bridge between two people who used to know every inch of each other.

She looked at me.

And for one impossible second, I saw the old her.

The girl who looked at me like I hung the moon.

Then she blinked.

And she was gone.

The love was still there.

But it wasn’t innocent anymore.

It had scars.

And somehow that hurt worse.

“I missed you.”

I don’t know why I said it.

Maybe because it was true.

Maybe because I knew exactly what words would open the door.

That was the worst thing about knowing someone.

You know their weaknesses.

You know where they’re soft.

You know which memories will make them hesitate.

I knew hers.

And I hated myself for still having that power.

Because love and cruelty can sometimes wear the same face.

Sometimes the person who knows how to hold your heart also knows exactly where to press to make it bleed.

“I missed you, too.”

Her voice was quiet.

And for a moment, I thought I had her back.

That was the terrible thing.

I thought winning her back would fix everything.

I thought if she looked at me the way she used to, I could become the person she believed I was.

But you can’t resurrect a version of yourself that never existed.

You can’t apologize your way back into someone’s innocence.

She looked at me and said:

“Missing you doesn’t mean I should return to the place where I lost myself.”

And something inside me broke.

Because she was right.

She had spent a year learning how to live without me.

And I had spent a year missing the person who loved me without asking whether I deserved her.

I wanted to tell her everything.

I thought about her when it rained.

That I still had the playlist she made me.

I still remember the exact way she said my name when she was half asleep.

That every person after her felt like a comparison I didn’t want to make.

That I had searched for pieces of her in strangers and hated myself every time I failed.

But love is strange.

Sometimes you don’t miss someone because they were perfect.

You miss them because they were yours.

Even if you were the reason they stopped being yours.

I wanted to ask her to come back.

I wanted to beg.

I wanted to fall to my knees and tell her I would change.

But promises are cheap when they come after destruction.

Anyone can promise to rebuild after they burn the house down.

The difficult part is not causing the fire.

She left.

And I stood there watching her disappear into the crowd.

The same crowd where I found her a year ago.

The same campus.

The same buildings.

The same world.

But somehow everything was different.

Because she had finally stopped waiting for me.

And I had finally realized that being someone’s favourite memory is not the same as being someone’s future.

People say if you love someone, you let them go.

I think that’s only half true.

Sometimes you let them go because you love them.

Sometimes you let them go because you finally understand that your love was starving them.

I still miss her.

I probably always will.

But missing someone is not proof that you deserve them back.

A thirsty soul will drink poison if it mistakes it for water.

And I spent too long holding out an empty cup, hoping she would fill it again.

She was never supposed to save me.

She was never supposed to be the cure for everything broken inside me.

She was just a girl who loved me.

And I was just a boy who didn’t know what to do with something so beautiful.

Sometimes, late at night, I still wonder:

Does she think of me when she goes places?

Does she hear songs and remember?

Does she ever look at the moon and wonder if I’m looking too?

I wonder if somewhere inside her, there is still a small room where I exist.

A forgotten corner.

A locked door.

A name written in faded ink.

Maybe there is.

Maybe there isn’t.

But I have no right to ask.

Because I was given forever in her hands…

And I dropped it.

So now I live with the echo.

The ghost.

The memory of a girl who loved me enough to wait.

And the unbearable knowledge that the one person who would have stayed…

was the one person I taught how to leave.

(Her POV)

The dangerous thing about ghosts is that they always know how to come home.

They never knock.

They never ask if you have moved on.

They appear in the doorway of your life, wearing a familiar smile, carrying memories in their hands, and suddenly, you are sixteen steps backward from healing.

That was him.

Always him.

A song I couldn’t stop hearing.

A name my heart whispered before my mind could stop it.

A wound that somehow still knew how to bloom.

The first time he came back to campus after that day, I told myself I was prepared.

I wasn’t.

Nobody is prepared for the person who broke them to show up looking like the answer to a question they spent a year trying to forget.

He texted me at 2:13 a.m.

A stupidly specific time.

The kind of time when loneliness gets louder than pride.

Are you awake?

I stared at the message for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of remembering every late-night conversation.

Every sleep well.

Every I wish you were here.

Every moment where the world felt softer because he existed in it.

I hated that my fingers still knew how to type his name.

I hated that my heart still reacted as if it belonged to him.

Because healing is not a straight line.

Sometimes healing is standing in front of the same door you promised yourself you’d never open again…

and still wanting to know what’s behind it.

I replied.

That was my first mistake.

Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake.

Maybe it was proof that I was human.

Because nobody tells you how complicated it is to love someone who hurt you.

They tell you to leave.

They tell you to choose yourself.

They tell you that if someone breaks your heart, you should never look back.

But what if the person who broke your heart was also the person who held it gently before?

What if the same hands that caused the pain were once the hands you reached for in the dark?

What do you do with a love that was real and wrong at the same time?

He started appearing everywhere.

Not in a creepy way.

In a devastating way.

The kind of way that made me question whether the universe was cruel or just bored.

The café near my apartment.

The bookstore where I spent my afternoons.

The campus path where we used to walk together.

Places that used to belong to me suddenly had pieces of him scattered everywhere.

“You look happy,” he said one afternoon.

I smiled.

“I am.”

The lie came out easily.

Because the truth was uglier.

I was happy.

But there were still moments where I wished happiness had his face.

And that terrified me.

He looked different.

Not because he changed.

Because I did.

Before, I used to look at him and see everything I wanted.

Now I looked at him and saw everything I survived.

The boy.

The memory.

The mistake.

The almost.

The person who taught me that love could feel like heaven and still leave you burning.

“I’ve been thinking about us,” he admitted.

Of course, he had.

Because people always think about the things they lose.

Rarely do they have the things they need.

“I miss what we were.”

I looked down.

Because that was the problem.

He missed what we were.

Not what we could become.

Not the person I became after him.

Not the woman who learned how to breathe without waiting for his messages.

He missed the version of me who loved him without limits.

The version who would forgive anything as long as he stayed.

And she was gone.

“I never stopped loving you.”

The words almost destroyed me.

Almost.

Because once upon a time, those words would have been enough.

They would have been a key.

They would have unlocked every door.

I would have run back.

I would have forgiven everything.

I would have kissed every apology away.

I would have touched his face and whispered:

You’re finally back.

And maybe that was the saddest part.

A piece of me still wanted to.

A piece of me still remembered the shape of his shoulder under my cheek.

The warmth of his hand in mine.

The way his voice sounded when he said my name.

The way I wanted to leave kisses along his jaw, his neck, the place beneath his ear where his pulse gave him away.

The way I used to think:

How lucky am I that I get to love someone like this?

But love is not just wanting someone.

Sometimes love is knowing when wanting them will destroy you.

“I believe you,” I whispered.

His eyes lifted.

Hope.

I saw it.

And I hated myself for what I had to say next.

“I believe that you loved me.”

His expression changed.

“But you loved me in a way that hurt me.”

Silence.

The kind that feels like standing in the ruins of something beautiful.

“You loved having somewhere to return to,” I continued. “You loved knowing I would answer.”

His jaw tightened.

Because the truth hurts differently when it comes from someone who knows you completely.

“I’m not saying you didn’t love me,” I said softly. “I’m saying love wasn’t enough.”

He looked broken.

And I hated that.

Because a cruel part of me wanted him to suffer.

Wanted him to feel every sleepless night.

Every unanswered question.

Every moment where I wondered if I was easy to leave.

But another part of me—the part that loved him—wanted to hold him.

Wanted to tell him it was okay.

Wanted to make his pain disappear.

That was my curse.

Even after everything…

I still wanted to save him.

“Come back to me.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

Four words.

Four words that almost ended me.

Because some people can say your name and make you forget every reason you left.

He stepped closer.

And for one terrifying second, I almost did.

I almost reached for him.

I almost believed the universe had finally corrected itself.

I almost swallowed the lie.

Maybe this time will be different.

Maybe people change.

Maybe love fixes everything.

But then I remembered.

A hungry heart eats anything.

Even memories.

Even promises.

Even poison.

“I can’t.”

His face fell.

And mine broke with it.

Because I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

But wanting someone and choosing them are not always the same thing.

Sometimes the person you love is not the person who can love you safely.

Sometimes someone can be your soulmate in every universe except the one where you actually meet.

Sometimes two people can have the right love at the wrong time.

And sometimes wrong time is just a beautiful way of saying:

We hurt each other too much.

Years from now, maybe I’ll forget the sound of his voice.

Maybe I’ll forget the exact shade of his eyes.

Maybe his name will stop feeling like a prayer.

But I don’t think I’ll ever forget the girl I was with him.

The girl who believed love meant waiting.

The girl who built a house and kept the lights on for someone who was lost.

I don’t hate her anymore.

She loved beautifully.

She loved completely.

She loved like she had an endless ocean inside her.

She just forgot she was allowed to drink from it, too.

He walked away.

Again.

But this time, I didn’t chase him.

This time, I let the door close.

Not because I stopped loving him.

Not because he became a stranger.

Not because the memories disappeared.

But because I finally understood something:

A person can be the love of your life…

and still not be the life you deserve.

Sometimes, when it rains, I still wonder:

Does he think of me?

Does he remember my favourite song?

Does he still pause when he passes places we used to go?

Does he ever miss me for the rest of his life?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But I don’t live inside those questions anymore.

Because I spent too long waiting for someone to return.

I forgot I was supposed to return to myself.

And maybe that is the final truth:

The heart will always hunger.

It will always crave what once made it feel alive.

But a soul that has learned its worth…

will never drink poison again.

Even if the poison remembers your name.

Even if it comes back smiling.

Even if it still feels like home.

Copyright 2026 - present © hazelira all rights reserved. All writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.

requested by anon - Hii I don't know if you have written something similar but could you write a jake fic angst but also comfort in which jake has the tendency of avoiding confrontation after arguments and basically acting like nothing happened and so the reader doesn't like that because it reminds her of her family arguments that never ended with apologies etc. ?

You used to think the worst part of an argument was the yelling.

You were wrong.

The worst part was when everything became quiet afterward.

Because yelling meant someone still cared enough to fight. Silence suggested that someone had already given up.

You learned that when you were young.

Arguments in your family were never really resolved. They were buried. Hidden underneath ordinary conversations and forced smiles.

Someone would say something cruel.

Someone else would cry behind a closed door.

And then, somehow, the next morning, everyone would sit at the same table and pretend nothing happened.

No apologies.

No explanations.

No I didn’t mean it.

No I’m sorry I hurt you.

Just silence dressed up as peace.

You hated how much it stayed with you.

You hated how, even years later, a person acting normal after hurting you could make your chest tighten, and your thoughts spiral.

Because you knew what came next.

You knew what it felt like to slowly convince yourself that your feelings didn’t matter because nobody else seemed bothered by them.

Then Jake came into your life.

And you thought maybe he would be different.

He was different.

That was the painful part.

Jake was kind.

Jake was patient.

Jake loved you in ways you didn’t even know you needed.

He remembered the little things.

He remembered which snacks you liked when you were stressed. He noticed when you were tired, even when you insisted you weren’t. He would quietly fix things before you even realized they needed fixing.

Jake wasn’t the kind of person who loved loudly.

He loved through actions.

Through consistency.

Through showing up.

And maybe that was why you never expected that the one thing that hurt you most would be something he did without even realizing it.

Jake avoided confrontation.

Not because he didn’t care.

Almost because he cared too much.

Arguments overwhelmed him. Emotional conversations where everything was uncertain made him uncomfortable. He liked knowing how to fix things, solve problems, and create order.

But feelings weren’t always something you could organize.

And sometimes, when things got too intense, Jake’s instinct was to retreat.

To think.

To calm down.

To wait until things felt normal again.

Except for you, normal was terrifying.

Because normal after an argument felt like pretending.

And pretending was something you knew too well.

The first time you really noticed it was after a small argument.

It wasn’t even something huge.

That almost made it worse.

You had been feeling distant from him for weeks. You knew he was busy and tired, but you missed him.

You missed feeling like you were part of his world.

So you told him.

At least, you tried.

“I feel like you don’t really need me lately.”

The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Jake looked surprised.

“Why would you think that?” “I don’t know.”

You looked away.

Because explaining feelings had always been difficult, your emotions came in waves, and sometimes they were too big to translate into words.

“I just feel like you’re somewhere else.”

Jake sighed softly.

Not an angry sigh.

A tired one.

But your brain didn’t know the difference.

“I’ve told you I’m busy, Y/N.” “I know.” “Then why are we having this conversation?”

The moment he said it, his expression changed.

Like he realized how it sounded.

But it was too late.

Your heart had already taken the words and turned them into something sharper.

“Okay.”

Jake frowned.

“No, wait. That’s not what I meant.”

But you were already pulling away.

“I think I just wanted you to understand.” “I do understand.” “No, you understand the situation. You don’t understand how it feels.”

That silence came.

The one you hated.

Jake looked down.

And you immediately felt guilty.

Because you knew him.

You knew he wasn’t trying to dismiss you.

You knew he was probably trying to figure out what to say.

But your heart was already somewhere else.

Somewhere older.

Somewhere painful.

The conversation ended without a real ending.

Jake apologized for upsetting you.

You apologized for being emotional.

And somehow, neither of you felt better.

That night, you stared at the ceiling for hours.

You wondered if you were asking for too much.

Maybe you were too sensitive.

Maybe other people could handle things better.

Maybe love wasn’t supposed to require so much reassurance.

Maybe you were the problem.

The next morning, Jake acted normally.

That was the part that broke you.

He came into the room with your favourite drink.

He smiled.

“Did you sleep okay?”

You stared at him.

Because how could he ask that?

How could he stand there looking so calm when you felt like your whole heart was bruised?

“Jake.”

He paused.

“What?” “Are we not going to talk about last night?”

His shoulders lowered slightly.

“I thought we were okay.”

Your stomach dropped.

There it was.

That sentence.

The sentence that sounded so harmless to everyone else.

But to you, it sounded like every unfinished argument from your childhood.

“I don’t think we are.”

Jake looked confused.

“But we apologized.” “No, we ended the conversation.”

He went quiet.

You laughed softly, but there was no happiness in it.

“See? This is what I mean.” “What?” “You think because we stopped arguing, everything is fine.”

Jake’s face softened.

“Y/N…” “No, I know you’re not trying to hurt me.”

Your voice cracked.

“That’s what makes it worse.”

He looked at you.

“I know you love me. I know you care. But when you act as if nothing happened, it feels like I’m the only one still carrying it.”

The room became painfully quiet.

And this time, Jake didn’t run from it.

He listened.

“I grew up with this,” you whispered.

Jake’s expression changed.

“You did?”

You nodded.

“People would hurt each other and then pretend everything was okay. Nobody apologized. Nobody talked about it. Everyone just moved on.”

Your eyes burned.

“And I always felt crazy for still being hurt because everyone else acted like it was nothing.”

Jake’s face broke a little.

“You thought I was doing that?”

You swallowed.

“Sometimes.”

The honesty hurt.

But it was necessary.

Jake sat down beside you.

For a while, he didn’t say anything.

Usually, that would scare you.

But this time, you knew he was thinking.

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes lifted.

Jake looked at his hands.

“I think I’ve been trying to make things better by making them normal.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“But I understand now that those are different things.”

You stayed quiet.

“I don’t like conflict,” he admitted. “I never have. When someone I love is upset with me, my first thought is that I failed somehow.”

Your expression softened.

“So I avoid it.”

He looked at you.

“I thought giving you space was helping.” “It felt like you were leaving.”

The words were quiet.

But they hit him.

Jake’s eyes softened immediately.

“I’m not leaving.”

Your lip trembled.

“I know you’re not. But sometimes my brain doesn’t know the difference.”

Jake reached for your hand slowly.

“You shouldn’t have to convince yourself that your feelings are allowed.”

You looked down.

“I feel like I’m too much sometimes.” “No.”

His answer was immediate.

“You’re not.”

You looked at him.

Jake squeezed your hand.

“You feel things deeply. That isn’t something I want to change about you.”

Your eyes filled.

“I’m scared you’ll get tired of having to reassure me.” “I might get things wrong,” he admitted. “I might need reminders. But I don’t want a version of you that needs less love.”

That was when you finally broke.

Not because you were sad.

Because you had been holding everything in for so long.

Jake pulled you into him without hesitation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Again.

And again.

Not because he thought repeating it would erase everything.

But because he wanted you to know he meant it.

You cried into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry too.” “For what?” “For assuming you didn’t care.”

Jake shook his head.

“I understand why you did.”

And maybe that was the thing you needed.

Not someone who promised they would never hurt you.

Not someone who magically knew how to fix every wound.

Just someone willing to learn where the wounds were.

Someone willing to sit in the uncomfortable moments.

Someone willing to say:

“I hurt you.”

“I understand why.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m still here.”

Later that night, Jake held your hand while you both talked.

Really talked.

About what happened.

About what you needed.

About what he needed.

It wasn’t perfect.

There were pauses.

There were moments where Jake struggled to find the right words.

There were moments when you cried because feelings were overwhelming.

But neither of you walked away.

Neither of you pretended.

And that was new.

That was healing.

Because love wasn’t hurting each other.

Love was learning how to come back.

And for the first time in your life, an argument didn’t feel like the beginning of losing someone.

It felt like proof that someone was willing to stay.

For a while, things were better.

Not perfect.

But better.

And maybe that was what made it hurt more when things started slipping again.

Because you had allowed yourself to believe that you were safe.

You had allowed yourself to believe that maybe this time would be different.

Jake tried.

You saw it.

You saw it in the small things.

The first time you disagreed after that night, he didn’t walk away.

You watched him struggle with himself, watched him swallow the instinct to shut down.

“I need a minute,” he said quietly.

Your heart immediately tightened.

But then he added,

“Not because I don’t want to talk to you. I want to calm down so I don’t say something I don’t mean.”

And that alone almost made you cry.

Before, a pause meant abandonment.

Now, he was teaching you that sometimes a pause could mean someone was trying to stay.

Jake learned.

He asked questions.

He apologized.

He started saying things out loud that had been trapped in his head.

“I’m upset, but I’m not angry at you.” “I need time to process, but I’m not ignoring you.” “I love you. We’re okay.”

Those words became something you held onto.

Because for someone like you, someone who felt everything too deeply and feared losing the people you loved, reassurance wasn’t a luxury.

It was a bridge.

But sometimes, old habits didn’t disappear just because someone understood them.

Sometimes they came back when people were tired.

Stressed.

Overwhelmed.

Human.

And Jake was human.

You knew that.

You knew he wasn’t perfect.

You knew healing wasn’t a straight line.

But your heart still broke when it happened again.

It started on a day when everything felt wrong.

Jake had been exhausted.

You could tell.

He was quieter than usual, answering with shorter replies, his mind somewhere else.

You tried not to take it personally.

You really tried.

But then you asked him a simple question.

“Are you okay?”

Jake looked up from his phone.

“I’m fine.”

You nodded.

But something in your chest felt uneasy.

“You sure?”

His expression changed slightly.

Not anger.

Just frustration.

“I said I’m fine, Y/N.”

The way he said it made you freeze.

Because suddenly you weren’t hearing Jake.

You were hearing every person who had ever told you that your concern was inconvenient.

You looked away.

“Okay.”

Jake noticed immediately.

He always noticed.

“What?” “Nothing.”

His eyebrows furrowed.

“No, don’t do that.”

Your chest tightened.

“Do what?” “Shut down.”

You almost laughed.

Because the irony hurt.

“You mean as you do?”

The silence after that was immediate.

You regretted it the second it left your mouth.

Jake looked hurt.

And guilt flooded through you.

“I didn’t mean—” “No. You’re right.”

His voice was quiet.

“I did do that.”

You looked at him.

And for a moment, you thought maybe this was the moment.

The moment when you both talked.

The moment when things got repaired.

But then Jake sighed.

“I’m just tired, Y/N.”

And there it was.

The wall.

The one you knew too well.

“I know.” “Then why does it feel like I’m always failing?”

You blinked.

“What?”

Jake rubbed his face.

“I feel like no matter what I do, I hurt you.”

Your heart cracked.

Because that wasn’t what you wanted.

You never wanted him to feel like loving you was a punishment.

“I don’t think you’re failing.” “But you’re always hurt.”

The words were quiet.

But they destroyed you.

Because your brain twisted them into something else.

I’m difficult.

I’m exhausted.

I’m too much.

“I’m sorry.”

Jake immediately looked at you.

“What?” “I’m sorry.”

Your voice was smaller.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” “That’s not what I said.” “But it’s what you mean.” “No, Y/N—” “I think maybe…”

You stopped.

Because saying it out loud made it real.

Jake’s expression changed.

“Maybe what?”

Your eyes filled.

“Maybe I’m just not the kind of person you should be with.”

The room went completely still.

Jake stared at you.

“What?”

You looked down because you couldn’t handle seeing his face.

“You deserve someone easier.”

His heart visibly broke.

“Easier?”

Someone who doesn’t overthink everything.

Someone who doesn’t need constant reassurance.

Someone who doesn’t turn every little thing into something bigger.

The thoughts came rushing out.

“I feel like I’m always asking you to prove you love me.” “Y/N…” “And I hate that.”

Your voice shook.

“I hate feeling like I need so much.”

Jake stood up.

Not angrily.

Almost desperately.

“You think I’m tired of loving you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you were afraid the answer might hurt.

Jake stepped closer.

“Look at me, baby...”

You couldn’t.

“...please.”

Slowly, you did.

And the expression on his face broke something inside you.

Because Jake looked scared.

Not annoyed.

Not frustrated.

Scared.

“I need you to hear me.”

You wiped your tears.

Jake swallowed.

“You are not a burden.”

Your lips trembled.

“I know you say that.” “No.”

His voice became firmer.

“I need you to understand it.”

You went quiet.

“I made a mistake.”

Your eyes lifted.

“I thought avoiding conflict meant protecting us. I thought if I didn’t make things bigger, they would disappear.”

He shook his head.

“But I forgot that disappearing isn’t the same as healing.”

Your tears fell.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like your feelings were something I had to deal with.”

Jake’s voice cracked slightly.

“Your feelings are part of you.”

He took your hand.

“And I love you.”

You looked away.

“Sometimes I don’t believe you.” “I know.”

That answer surprised you.

Jake squeezed your hand.

“And I’m not angry that you struggle to believe it.”

You stared at him.

“Because I know someone taught you that love could disappear when you became inconvenient.”

Your breath caught.

“But I’m not them.”

The tears came harder.

Jake pulled you closer.

“I can’t promise I’ll never make mistakes.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“I probably will.”

A small, broken laugh escaped you.

“But I promise I won’t use your hurt as a reason to love you less.”

That sentence shattered you.

Because that was your biggest fear.

Not the arguments.

Not the misunderstandings.

Not even the silence.

It was the fear that one day someone would see how deeply you felt everything and decide it was too exhausting.

Jake held you while you cried.

“I almost left,” you whispered.

His arms tightened.

“I know.” “I thought if I left first, it would hurt less.”

His voice was soft.

“Did it?”

You shook your head.

“No.” “Because you don’t actually want to leave.”

You closed your eyes.

“No.”

You wanted him.

You wanted the difficult conversations.

You wanted the uncomfortable moments.

You wanted the work.

You didn’t want to feel like you were the only one fighting for it.

Jake brushed your hair away from your face.

“Then don’t disappear when you’re scared.”

You looked at him.

“Help me learn not to.”

And that was the difference.

Before, you thought love meant finding someone who would never trigger your wounds.

But maybe love was finding someone who cared enough to help you heal them.

Someone who didn’t run when things became complicated.

Someone who stayed.

Jake still hated confrontation.

You still felt things deeply.

He still needed time to process.

You still needed reassurance.

But now you both knew.

His silence wasn’t proof that he stopped caring.

And your emotions weren’t proof that you were too much.

You were just two people learning how to love each other in the places where you were hurt.

That night, Jake held you until you fell asleep.

And before you drifted off, you heard him whisper:

“I’m still here.”

Three words.

Simple.

Quiet.

But this time, you believed him.

(Jake’s POV)

Jake always thought love was supposed to be simple.

Not easy.

He knew nothing meaningful was ever truly easy.

But simple.

You loved someone.

You took care of them.

You showed up.

You did the right things.

At least, that was how Jake understood love.

He was a person who trusted actions more than words. If someone mattered to him, he made sure they knew through the little things.

Remembering their favourite drink.

Making sure they got home safely.

Checking if they had eaten.

Fixing things before they became problems.

Jake had always been like that.

When something broke, he fixed it.

When something was wrong, he found a solution.

When someone he loved was hurting, he wanted to take away the pain.

But loving you taught him something he never expected.

Sometimes people didn’t need solutions.

Sometimes they needed someone willing to sit beside them while the problem existed.

And that was something Jake was still learning.

Especially with you.

Especially because he knew now how badly he had hurt you without ever intending to.

He remembered the first time you told him you were scared he would leave.

He remembered how your voice grew smaller.

Like you were apologizing for having a fear.

Like you were ashamed of needing reassurance.

And Jake hated himself a little for that.

Because he had always thought his silence was harmless.

He thought giving space was respectful.

He thought waiting until emotions settled was mature.

But he never realized that for you, silence wasn’t empty.

Silence had memories.

Silence had history.

Silence had every moment where someone hurt you and then acted like you were wrong for still feeling it.

He didn’t know that every time he walked away to process, a part of you wondered if he was walking away from you.

He didn’t know.

But now he did.

And knowing made him want to be better.

The problem was…

Knowing didn’t mean he always knew how.

The day you shut down, Jake knew something was wrong immediately.

You were too quiet.

Not your normal quiet.

Jake knew you were quiet.

There was the quiet where you were comfortable.

The quiet where you were reading, listening to music, lost in your own thoughts.

Then there was this.

This was the kind of quiet that felt like you had disappeared somewhere inside yourself.

You were sitting on the couch, staring at nothing.

Your phone was beside you, untouched.

Your favourite show was playing in the background, but you weren’t watching.

“Y/N?”

No response.

Jake walked closer.

“Hey.”

You blinked slowly.

“Oh.”

That was all you said.

Oh.

As you had forgotten he was there.

His chest tightened.

“What’s wrong?”

You immediately shook your head.

“Nothing.”

Before, that answer would have made him frustrated.

Before, he would have thought:

She’s shutting me out.

She doesn’t trust me.

Why won’t she tell me?

But now he knew better.

Sometimes nothing didn’t mean nothing.

Sometimes it meant:

I don’t know how to explain this.

Sometimes it meant:

I’m scared that if I start talking, I won’t stop crying.

Sometimes it meant:

I’m trying so hard not to be a burden.

Jake sat beside you.

Not too close.

He remembered.

You didn’t like feeling trapped when you were overwhelmed.

“I’m not going to force you to talk.”

Your eyes flickered toward him.

“But I’m here, baby.”

Your lips pressed together.

And that was when he saw it.

The tears.

Not falling.

Just sitting there.

Waiting.

“Y/N…”

You looked away quickly.

“I’m fine.”

His heart hurt.

Because he recognized that sentence.

Not because you said it.

Because of the way you said it.

Like you were trying to convince yourself.

Jake took a breath.

The old version of him would have immediately started asking questions.

What happened?

Who upset you?

How do we fix this?

What can I do?

But he stopped himself.

Because this wasn’t a problem to solve.

This was the person he loved.

“I’m not going to ask you to explain everything right now.”

Your face tightened.

“I’m sorry.”

Jake frowned.

“For what?” “For being like this.”

The words hit him harder than he expected.

“Like what?”

You shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

Your voice cracked.

“Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too much.”

Jake felt his chest ache.

Because there it was again.

That belief.

That you were something difficult to carry.

He turned toward you.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t look up.

“I know you’re trying to help.”

Your voice became quieter.

“But sometimes when I’m upset, I feel like I have to hurry and get better so you won’t get tired.”

Jake froze.

Because he realized something.

Even after everything.

Even after the conversations.

Even after his apologies.

A part of you was still waiting for him to decide you were too difficult.

And suddenly, Jake understood.

He hadn’t just hurt you during arguments.

He had reinforced a fear you already carried.

He had accidentally confirmed something you were already afraid of.

That if you were hurting too much, people would eventually stop choosing you.

Jake swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

You shook your head.

“Don’t apologize.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want you to apologize just because I’m sad.”

That stopped him.

Because you were right.

You didn’t need a performance.

You didn’t need him to panic and say everything perfectly.

You needed him to understand.

So he tried.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, quieter. “Not because you’re crying.”

He looked at you.

“Not because I want this moment to end.”

Your eyes met his.

“I’m sorry because I understand now that I made you feel like your pain was something I needed to escape.”

Your expression changed.

Jake looked down.

“And I hate that.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“Jake…” “I used to think if I could make things normal again, I was helping.”

He gave a small, sad laugh.

“But sometimes I think I was doing it because I was uncomfortable seeing someone I love hurt.”

Your breathing shook.

“And that wasn’t fair to you.”

Jake reached for your hand.

Slowly.

Giving you time.

“I don’t want to fix you.”

You looked at him.

“I know you’re not broken.”

That was the sentence that finally made you cry.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Because for once, someone wasn’t trying to convince you that your feelings were wrong.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” you whispered.

Jake squeezed your hand.

“Okay.”

You looked confused.

“Okay?” “Okay.”

He nodded.

“Then you don’t have to stop right now.”

Your eyebrows pulled together.

“I thought you’d tell me to think differently.” “I know.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“I’m still learning.”

You laughed weakly through your tears.

Jake smiled a little.

“I don’t need you to become someone who doesn’t feel deeply.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“That’s one of the things I love about you.”

You looked down.

“I just want you to know you don’t have to earn my patience.”

Your eyes filled again.

“You don’t have to be easy to love.”

Jake’s voice became softer.

“You just have to be you.”

And finally…

Finally…

You leaned into him.

Not because he had solved anything.

Not because the sadness magically disappeared.

But because he stayed.

Jake held you carefully.

Like he was holding something precious.

Because he was.

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand sooner,” he whispered.

You shook your head against his shoulder.

“You understand now.”

And that was enough.

Later that night, Jake thought about everything.

About every time, he had gone quiet.

Every time, he thought he was preventing an argument from becoming worse.

Every time, he had chosen comfort over conversation.

He realized something painful.

His silence had never meant he loved you less.

But love wasn’t only about intention.

It was about impact.

And the impact of his silence had been that you felt alone.

He never wanted you to feel alone again.

Not when you were crying.

Not when you were scared.

Not when you were convinced you were too much.

So he learned.

He learned that sometimes holding your hand was more important than finding the perfect words.

He learned that sometimes “I’m here” mattered more than “Here’s how we fix this.”

He learned that emotions weren’t emergencies.

They were moments.

Moments where someone needed to be witnessed.

Not repaired.

And you learned too.

You learned that Jake’s quiet wasn’t always rejection.

Sometimes it was him trying.

Sometimes it was him gathering the courage to stay.

Sometimes love looked like two people sitting in the middle of their wounds and saying:

I don’t know how to do this perfectly.

But I’m willing to learn.

Months later, after another small disagreement, Jake felt the old instinct.

The urge to retreat.

The urge to wait until everything was calm.

But then he looked at you.

And he remembered.

So he reached for your hand.

“I’m overwhelmed,” he admitted.

Your eyes softened.

“But I’m not leaving.”

A small smile appeared on your face.

And Jake realized that maybe healing wasn’t about being hurt again.

Maybe it was about finally having someone who stayed long enough to prove that hurt wasn’t the end.

That silence didn’t always mean goodbye.

That love didn’t disappear when things became difficult.

Jake squeezed your hand.

And this time, when the silence came…

It wasn’t empty.

It was safe.

Copyright 2026 - present © hazelira all rights reserved. All writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.

I cry on like every single one ughhh

Literally your words are so powerful I love it