#rhn

Love was a language Sylus had never been taught. From the beginning, he had grown up untouched by affection, never shown what love was supposed to look like, only what it looked like from the outside. To the world, the Qin family was a flawless portrait—successful careers, wealth enough to drown a lifetime in luxury, and a handsome son who completed the picture. People envied them, wished for their life.

But the portrait was painted over rot.

At night, Sylus would lie awake and listen to the truth splintering through the walls—shouting, breaking glass, plates shattering like brittle promises. He heard every crack, every bruise in their voices.

And his parents never bothered to hide any of it. His mother would tell him to pack his bags, that they were finally leaving his father. But it never happened. Instead, his father would drift into his room with soft apologies, sugarcoated words that dissolved by morning. Nothing ever changed. It never did.

Sometimes Sylus wished he could walk away from all of it—trade the gold, the diamonds, the silver-lined life for something far more precious. A family that loved without hurting. A home that didn’t cost him pieces of himself.

Then he met you.

You were blinding—so impossibly bright that the edges of the world seemed to tremble in your light. Too vivid, too alive, too much, and it terrified him.

You saw him. Not the polished reflection of a child born to two “perfect” parents, not the shadow he tried to hide behind. You saw him as he truly was—someone who scraped and fought for what he wanted, who refused to let the world define him. You saw him as Sylus. Sylus, who would shield you from storms, who would give you the sky and the ground beneath it if he could, who waged a quiet war every day against the dark echo of his father’s drunken rages and his mother’s endless anxieties. Until the war was lost.

Until the mistakes he swore he’d never make crept in, stealthy and inevitable, leaving bruises on the life he was trying to build.

As your friendship grew, he began to see the fragile, breathtaking perfection of you. The way your laughter scattered light across rooms like wind through glass. The way your voice could stop his chest from tightening, even for a moment. The subtle grace in your gestures, so effortless it felt almost unreal. And that terrified him.

Terrified that his darkness would stain you. Terrified that he would break the delicate world you carried so easily. Terrified that you would see the truth of his life, raw and jagged, and recoil.

So he wrapped himself in lies. He pretended the chaos didn’t reach him. He pretended he didn’t curl into himself at night, listening to the thuds and shouting from downstairs. He pretended his family was whole, stable. He pretended he was okay.

He envied you. He envied the family you had—the laughter that filled every corner of your home, the warmth that seemed to wrap around him like a blanket. He envied the family he could never have. They welcomed him with open arms, let him sleep over, trusted him with their precious daughter, and in that, he glimpsed a world he’d always been barred from.

Then your family invited his. At first, he hesitated. Maybe once they arrived, you’d see through the facade he had spent his life building. Maybe once you saw the truth, you would pull away, and he’d lose the only good thing in his life.

But he wanted you too badly. He wanted to keep the fragile, radiant thread that tied him to something real, something worth holding. So, with enough persistence and quiet insistence, he told his family to join yours for dinner.

And it went better than he ever could have imagined. His parents smiled, even laughed, offered food they would never have cooked for him at home, carried themselves as though they were the parents they pretended to be in public.

And maybe that was where Sylus learned to pretend. And yet, it infuriated him. That even here, in this rare slice of normalcy, he was more like his parents than he had ever wanted to be. The silver in his hair came from his father, yes—but so did the height, the temper, the sharp, undeniable charm. From his mother, he inherited red eyes that flickered with quiet intensity, a soft voice, and a mind that never stopped turning, overthinking, worrying, analyzing.

Guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Then one day, he heard his parents fighting. Nothing unusual—except that it was during the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, spilling through the blinds and making everything too bright, too raw. Not the dark, muffled nights he had grown used to, when he could pretend the walls absorbed the chaos. He heard the sharp sting of insults slicing through the air, the scream of his mother ricocheting off the walls, the crash and tinkle of bottles smashing to the floor. His chest tightened, and he felt tears well up, hot and blinding.

They were doing it again.

Sylus needed air. He needed space. He slipped out of the house, hoodie pulled up over his shaking frame, the fabric clinging to his shoulders like a fragile shield. He let his feet carry him, moving without direction, the concrete hard beneath his sneakers, the sun burning against his skin. Out of habit, he found himself in front of your house.

He wanted to knock. To step inside. To see you, to feel a fragment of normalcy. But he couldn’t—he wasn’t ready for you to see him like this, unraveling, fragile. Not when he had always been the strong one, the protector, the one who bore the weight silently between you.

So his feet turned left.

He walked until the sun softened, tilting golden and low, painting the streets with long, languid shadows. His wandering brought him to an empty playground. No children’s laughter, no parents calling, no echoes of life. Only the faint creak of a swing swaying in the breeze, the metallic taste of heat in the air, and the faint scent of grass and dust. The slide glinted in the fading sunlight, the sandbox smooth and untouched. It was perfect. Quiet. Safe. Just him, alone with the wind, his heartbeat loud in the empty space.

He sat on the swings, his muffled sobs filling the empty playground. The world around him disappeared; all he could hear were the echoes of his mother’s screams and his father’s shouts reverberating in his mind. His head felt hollow, thoughts scattering like smoke.

He didn’t deserve this. No child did.

He wanted to scream, to lash out at the world, to blame someone—anyone—for putting him here. But he couldn’t. He had to be strong. If his family was crumbling around him, the least he could do was hold something together, even if it was fragile, even if the walls he built were held together with nothing more than tape and sheer will.

He sobbed until his chest ached, until the swing beside him creaked under a new weight and he didn’t notice.

He only looked up when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

A handkerchief was offered to him. He glanced at the girl holding it, unfamiliar, a stranger in the quiet of the playground. He tried to compose himself, dabbing at his tears before shaking his head.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t need it—” His voice broke as he looked away.

“It’s alright, Qin. You can have it.” Her tone was warm, steady, patient.

Sylus froze. She knew him? Maybe a neighbor? He finally dared to look, and she was still offering it. Hesitation twisting his hands, he took it, wiping away the remaining tears and sweat from his face.

“You… you know me?” His voice wavered, uncertain.

“Oh, could I not, silly?” She chuckled, swinging lightly beside him. “I’m in your chemistry class.”

Heat rushed to his ears. Embarrassment burned him alive. He couldn’t even remember her name, let alone that she was his classmate—and here she was, seeing him unravel in front of her. His instinct was to apologize, to explain away his state, but she waved him off gently, insisting he let it out.

But Sylus didn’t.

Instead, he forced himself to calm down. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly, grounding himself in the warm afternoon light. He straightened his back, planting his feet firmly in the soft sand beneath the swing, and turned toward her. “Who are you?” His voice was steady now, though his heart still hammered in his chest.

“MC.” She said, her smile gentle and warm, as if she wanted to etch herself into his memory.

But Sylus stood frozen, eyebrows knitted together. “I’m sorry… I still don’t recall.”

It was almost laughable, even to him. Sylus was rarely forgetful. In fact, he noticed everything: the slight creases in a person’s sleeve, the faint scent of pencil shavings in the classroom, the subtle hum of electricity through the fluorescent lights. But around you, everything else went still. The world blurred. The air thickened. And that was why he couldn’t remember—because at that moment, all he could see was you.

MC tilted her head slightly, a trace of defeat softening her features, eyes drifting to the sun-bleached playground slides. “It’s fine. I’ve just… always admired how good you are in Chemistry.”

“Uh… thank you?” Sylus muttered, unsure whether to feel embarrassed or flustered.

She didn’t question why he had been crying. She hummed quietly, a soft, meandering melody that threaded itself into the warm afternoon air, filling the silence with something gentle, something safe.

Then she spoke again, casually, almost carelessly: “My mom’s being a bitch.”

Sylus blinked. The confession struck him off guard, abrupt, unfiltered. “Sorry?”

MC exhaled, a long, drawn-out sigh that carried all the weight of her frustration. “She told me to stop being laid-back, to study harder. I mean, come on—I’ve been working my ass off every day. VP of Student Council, top of my classes, academic trophies, competitions… and it’s still not enough for her.” Her gaze dropped to the ground. “My parents are fighting at my house right now. I just… escaped.”

Sylus’s attention sharpened. Her words unfolded around him, each syllable painting a picture he had never expected.

“And I usually come to this place to blow off steam,” she added, glancing at him with the faintest smile, “but it turns out I have company today.”

The words were simple, but there was an honesty in them that made something inside him stir. Without thinking, he stood, instinctively straightening again, ready to apologize for intruding, for even existing in her space.

“Stop apologizing, Qin,” she laughed softly, swaying on her swing. “You looked like you needed company anyway.” Her voice was easy, forgiving. Her presence seemed to absorb the heaviness clinging to him, urging him back onto the swing.

He sat again, heart still pounding, mind teetering on the edge of confession. For the first time in a long time, he felt the raw urge to let it out, to not hide the weight he carried.

“Me too,” he said quietly, almost hesitantly.

“Hm?”

“My parents… they’re fighting too. I just… needed a getaway.”

MC nodded, the gesture simple but understanding. She didn’t speak, didn’t pry. Instead, she returned to her gentle humming, a delicate, fluid counterpoint to the afternoon sun and the quiet rustle of leaves. The silence that enveloped them wasn’t awkward—it was a shield, comforting and unspoken.

And in that moment, Sylus realized something he hadn’t before. For the first time in his life, he didn’t need to pretend. No walls, no tape, no masks. Just the soft warmth of someone beside him, and the quiet permission to be human.

Ever since that encounter in the playground, Sylus saw her everywhere. In the crowded halls, where lockers clanged and footsteps echoed like a drumbeat, she seemed to float just out of reach, her presence a quiet beacon amid the chaos. In the cafeteria, among the clatter of trays and murmur of voices, his eyes always found her—laughing, talking, moving like she belonged to a world he could barely touch. In the gym, the echo of sneakers on polished floors could not drown out the thought of her, her silhouette framed in sunlight streaming through high windows. On the bleachers, in classrooms, by the library—everywhere, always. And it was slowly driving him insane.

How could someone like him, weighed down by the constant pressure of his life, act like everything was fine? How could he keep the mask in place, maintain the walls he had built so meticulously, when the simple sight of her made his chest tighten and his mind spin? Every glance, every careless smile, every small gesture—he felt it like a pulse running through him, shaking loose the careful control he had perfected over years of quiet suffering.

And yet, with her, it was different. With her, he felt truly seen. Not as the boy burdened by his parents’ fights, not as the one who performed strength for the world’s sake, but simply Sylus. His faults, his fears, his trembling hands—they didn’t have to be hidden. She made him feel something that you could never make him feel. With you, he had learned to perform, to mask, to protect. With her, he could exist without pretense. It was terrifying and intoxicating all at once, a freedom he hadn’t known he craved.

It was a cruel clarity: for the first time, he understood what it meant to feel alive, to feel raw and human. Yet the knowledge came with pain, because she also reminded him of everything he had to hide when she wasn’t around. She made him want more than he thought he deserved, more than the carefully controlled life he had built from fragments of stability and broken promises.

And that was the cruelest part: she made him feel something that you never could, something precious and dangerous—a life beyond pretending, a self he hadn’t dared to touch until now.

But still, even with MC’s quiet understanding, even with her presence offering him a rare reprieve from pretense, he found himself longing for you. Longing for the way your laughter filled a room like sunlight breaking through clouds, for the gentle imperfection in the tilt of your smile, for the authenticity in the way you moved through the world without armor. He longed for the warmth of your arms, the safety of being held by you, a feeling that both terrified and soothed him.

You were someone he could never replace. Even with MC, who made him feel seen and unmasked, you were different—you took his breath away with every glance, every word, every small gesture that carried the weight of your unspoken kindness. You were a promise he had carved into the corners of his heart: a promise to cherish you, a promise to love you, a promise to never let the shadows of his parents creep into the space he shared with you.

And yet, Sylus carried the gnawing belief that he did not deserve you. The thought clawed at him relentlessly—that if he let you see the chaos, the mold, the rot inside his life, he would somehow taint you too. He would never forgive himself if even a fragment of his brokenness reached you, because in a world collapsing behind closed doors, you were the piece of brick that held him upright, the fragile cornerstone of his fleeting stability.

To let you in completely felt impossible. To love you fully while carrying all that darkness felt like a betrayal. And yet, in the quiet, in those fleeting moments when your presence brushed against his life, he could not help but ache for you—the one constant he had never dared to take for granted, the one flame he could not, would not, let go.

So why did he let you slip away?

Sylus was such an idiot. He knew it the moment it happened. How dare he pair up with MC instead of you in Chemistry? The second he slid into the seat beside her, his chest tightened, a hollow ache forming in his stomach. And when his eyes found yours across the room, regret hit him like a jolt of electricity—sharp, undeniable, and suffocating.

You weren’t angry. That would have been easier to face. No, you were just sad—quietly, achingly sad, the kind of sadness that settled in your shoulders and whispered in your eyes. You scanned the classroom desperately, hoping to find someone to partner with, only to discover that everyone else had already paired off. And there you were, standing alone, the last one left, your expression a mixture of hope and resignation. Sylus could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, a silent guilt that made his hands clench involuntarily.

The teacher had offered, patiently, for you to join another group, but you had declined. Social interactions with people you weren’t close to weren’t your forte, and you had chosen to work alone. Sylus watched you gather your courage, pulling the quiet strength around you like armor, your fingers fidgeting slightly as you prepared to tackle the assignment on your own. The sight made him ache.

He wanted to leap across the room, grab your hand, pull you into their group, erase the hurt in your eyes before it could settle there permanently. But MC’s presence had already pulled him in. Her voice filled the space beside him, light and insistent, as she asked questions and suggested ideas. Sylus nodded, answered, discussed, engaged—while you remained in the corner, quiet, watching him with a look that pierced deeper than anything he could bear. You weren’t just observing; you were seeing him, really seeing him, and the thought of slowly losing you terrified him

That was the first fracture.

A week passed, slow and relentless, and with it, Sylus was slipping further away from you. It wasn’t sudden, not like a cliff falling into darkness—but more like water slowly seeping through cracks, invisible until the foundation had already shifted. He had become consumed by the project, a task months away from its deadline, working closely with a girl he had just met, and in that busy swirl, your presence began to fade from his attention.

And you understood. You always did. It wasn’t as though he was entitled to your time or your attention; it was for academics, after all. You accepted it quietly, without complaint, holding back the small ache that throbbed in your chest every time he was absent.

But Sylus noticed it too. He noticed the distance growing, the subtle shifts that he could no longer ignore. He walked with you to school only twice that week, when it had always been every morning, your shared silence a comforting ritual he now missed. His replies to your messages became delayed, clipped, almost automatic. Conversations that once stretched effortlessly now ended abruptly, leaving emptiness behind where warmth had always been.

The truth was, those days were filled more with MC than with you. He met her in quiet corners, tucked away from prying eyes, working on the project he should have shared with you. In those moments, he felt a strange ease, the freedom to let down the walls he always built around you. With her, he could speak of the darker things in his life without hesitation, without the fear of breaking the delicate balance he always maintained with you.

And little by little, lines began to blur. MC wasn’t just a partner in a school project anymore. She became someone he confided in, someone who could bear the weight of his frustrations, someone who could understand the shadows he kept hidden from you. Unlike with you, he wasn’t afraid to taint her with his problems, to spill the black paint of his life into her open hands without worrying if it would stain her too.

And the worst part—perhaps the most painful part—was that he didn’t even try to stop it.

But he wanted to rekindle the friendship that had quietly frayed over the span of a week. He wanted to bridge the gap he had created, even if only slightly.

So when Mr. M heard the thud of his head hitting the table, Sylus acted on impulse. He threw you under the bus, claiming the mishap was your fault. It was shameful, and yet, in a way, effective. In the end, he got what he wanted—but it was nothing like the image he had built in his mind.

Both of you received the punishment, and in that shared consequence, Sylus finally found a moment alone with his best friend. He stepped in once again, shielding you from a bully who had mocked your My Little Pony notebook. And when your familiar grin emerged, just a little crooked and full of relief, he felt it—a rush of victory that warmed him from the inside out. You invite him to 2nd Ave, the place where you both go when the world becomes a little too loud.

That triumph lasted only until MC appeared. In an instant, his vision blurred, and the moment he had shared with you splintered. His attention shifted, drawn magnetically to the girl who had become his confidant, the one with whom he could speak freely, without restraint, without fear of burdening.

When she invited him over to her house, Sylus felt a thrill of excitement. Curiosity prickled at his skin as he imagined stepping inside her world, peeking behind the curtain of the person who understood him. He wanted to see the cracks, the similarities, the act she might put on just as his parents had. He wanted to impress, to perform the role of the perfect guest, the perfect son, the perfect version of himself. The perfect child of perfect parents.

And yet, the moment MC left, he turned to you, expecting the warmth of your eyes, a playful remark, some acknowledgment of him and his careful appearance. But there was nothing. Your gaze was empty, distant, and he froze for a heartbeat, unsure how to fill the silence.

Before you could respond, Mr. M appeared, hauling both of your backpacks, shattering the fragile pause. And just like that—you were gone.

He had followed you, rushing, until you disappeared into the girls’ bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a hollow thud. He hesitated a moment, heart hammering, then asked softly what was wrong. You lied without missing a beat, murmuring that you weren’t feeling well. He didn’t press further—he never did.

Instead, he left, convincing himself that you were waiting for him elsewhere, maybe with a tray of food he had planned to deliver. The thought made his chest tighten with a small, bittersweet comfort.

But he hadn’t expected MC to appear again, sliding into the empty seat beside him—the one that had always been yours. The world seemed to tilt slightly as she laughed at something he said, as if the chair had been waiting for her instead. He forgot entirely about the food he had meant for you, the stale, half-cold school lunch abandoned in his hands, now offered absentmindedly to MC.

And all the while, he didn’t notice your gaze across the room. The way you watched him, quiet and still, a storm of disappointment and hurt hiding behind your eyes. He was too busy, too enthralled, too consumed by MC, by the ease of her presence, by the way she seemed to understand him without effort, to see the look you were giving him.

You were there. He just couldn’t see.

That was the second fracture.

He looked everywhere for you, his heart tightening with each empty hallway and vacant classroom. He never saw you emerge from the girls’ bathroom after locking yourself in, and at first, he didn’t realize what that meant. It wasn’t until the bell rang, sharp and final, signaling the end of lunch, that the absence hit him fully. MC had already waved goodbye, leaving him with nothing but the echo of her laughter—and you, nowhere to be found.

Maybe you were waiting for him in the next class. He hurried there, scanning every desk, every corner, every familiar spot where you might be. But you weren’t there. He waited, hope gnawing at him, counting every second, but nothing changed. One class passed. Two classes. Three. And still, no sign of you.

The final bell rang, and something inside him snapped. He bolted from the room, adrenaline carrying him down the hallways, past lockers and chattering students. Every classroom became a potential hiding place. Every shadowed corner, every empty hallway, the gym, the library—he searched them all, relentless, desperate, driven by the hollow ache of your absence.

And with each step, the fear in his chest grew heavier: what if he had already lost you?

During his frantic search, Sylus ran into MC. She had council duties to attend to, and he agreed to wait, though his thoughts never left you. Once she departed, he resumed the search, retracing steps, scanning every corner of the school, every empty hallway, his chest tightening with the absence of you.

The last place left unsearched was the vast track field behind the building. The open expanse felt endless, the wind stirring uneasily around him as he hurried across it. And then he saw you.

You were sitting on the bleacher bench, rigid and still, the sun striking your eyes as if you were deliberately forcing yourself to stare into the light. You looked fragile and untouchable at the same time, as though the brightness could somehow shield you from everything else, including him.

Sylus approached, his steps tentative, concern weighing heavily in his chest. He tried to bridge the distance, to find some way to reach you, to understand the sudden void your absence had left. But the tension radiating from you was palpable, almost a barrier, and he felt it press against him, even without words. You didn’t turn to face him fully, your posture taut, your movements clipped, your presence charged with the quiet weight of disappointment.

He handed you a handkerchief, holding it in front of your eyes to shield you from the harsh sunlight. The gesture was small, careful, but even as he tried to offer comfort, something else tugged at him—an invisible pull that drew his attention away, pulling him toward MC. And in that instant, everything else faded from his mind: the reason he had come, the worry that had driven him across the school, the sight of you bathed in sunlight, alone.

Before he even registered it, he was moving away, leaving the bench, leaving the heat of the sun against your skin, leaving you behind. You remained there, still and silent, while he crossed the field toward MC, and with each step, the distance between you widened—quiet, imperceptible, but irreversible.

That was the third fracture.

Throughout the walk to MC’s house, Sylus couldn’t stop thinking about you. No matter how many corners they turned or how many streets they crossed, the image of you lingered in his mind—your quiet avoidance, the hollow look in your eyes when you glanced at him, the way your presence felt suddenly distant. It gnawed at him, that emptiness. He tried to bury the ache, swallowing it down like he always did, forcing himself to stay composed, strong, unshaken—but it sat in his chest like a stone.

His thoughts spiraled. He replayed everything—your childhood moments, the laughter, the late-night talks, the small victories and shared secrets. He realized how deeply thankful he was for all of it, how he wouldn’t trade a single memory with you for anything. He loved you, and that truth sat quietly, unwaveringly, in the center of him. But that constancy frightened him now.

Because with MC, he felt light. He felt unburdened, unfiltered. He didn’t have to think before he spoke, didn’t have to monitor the weight of his words or hide the mess trailing behind him. And the freedom scared him. He feared the moment he would be forced to choose—between the person he had grown up with, the one who shaped his world, and the person who made that world feel less heavy.

It had hovered at the back of his mind for a while. He wasn’t clueless; he knew MC liked him. And the feelings he felt toward her—gentle, warm, uncomplicated—weren’t hard to reciprocate. It was easy to fall into step with someone who carried the same shadows he did.

But then there was you.

The light of his day. The melody to his song. The Monica to his Chandler. The princess to his knight.

You were delicate in his eyes—not weak, never weak—but precious. Someone to be cared for, treated gently, protected like royalty. If you were the princess, then your father was the king who had unknowingly entrusted you to him. And Sylus, young and naive, had appointed himself your knight—the shield, the sword, the unwavering guardian.

But what knight could protect a princess when he couldn’t even keep his own home from crumbling? How could he offer you stability when he himself was stitched together with fear and bruised memories? He felt unworthy—terrified that one day he would break you, that his darkness would seep into your light.

Maybe leaving was better. Maybe giving you space to flourish on your own was kinder. Maybe distancing himself was the right thing, even if it tore him apart. You deserved someone whole, someone steady—someone who wasn’t splintered beneath the armor.

And MC… MC understood the fractures. She carried her own bruises, her own scars. Her world looked more like his. Two people floating in the same broken boat, weathering the same storms—it made sense. It was easier. It felt fair.

Yeah. MC was better, he told himself. Someone like her fit the shape of his damage. Someone who mirrored his pain made him feel less alone. Maybe with her, he could finally see his worth, fractured and flawed as it was.

Because in his eyes, a princess deserved a prince—not a knight who was already bleeding.

Meeting MC’s dad wasn’t terrifying the way meeting your father had been. There was no towering presence laced with silent judgments, no royal stillness that made Sylus question his worth. Instead, it felt familiar—eerily so. The quiet resignation in the man’s eyes, the heaviness in his shoulders, the home that carried an undertone of exhaustion… it all mirrored the atmosphere he grew up in. It made everything easier, more predictable. Less like stepping into someone else’s kingdom and more like stepping into a house where the walls already understood him.

When he asked where MC’s mother was, the answer came effortlessly—too effortlessly. “Out again,” she said, tossing the words like loose change. Probably drinking. Probably with someone who wasn’t her husband. She said it so casually it unsettled him, yet somehow made him feel seen in a way that hurt. Like the two of them had been raised in the same storm, different houses but identical thunder.

He expected her room to contrast the chaos of her family—maybe immaculate, coordinated, the room of someone who looked put-together every time she stepped outside. But the moment he crossed her doorway, stray clothes gathered at his feet like a greeting committee. Bottles—water, soda, energy drinks—were scattered around like abandoned soldiers. Makeup was smeared across a desk, books half-opened and forgotten, papers crushed into defeated balls near the trash can but never in it. The bed looked like a storm had slept in it, sheets twisted, pillows exiled to the corners.

It hit him like a slap: MC was nothing like you. Her room was everything your world wasn’t. An eyesore—yet an honest one.

And in that disarray, something clicked inside him. MC was pretending just like he was. She wore composure like a mask, hid chaos behind accolades, drowned instability under trophies that gleamed brighter than her home life ever could. She was a mirror he didn’t expect. A reflection of everything he tried to hide.

MC gasped as if she hadn’t expected him to witness this version of her—raw, uncurated, real. She apologized in a rush, tripping over explanations about forgetting to clean, about being used to the mess. Sylus understood. How could he not?

He watched her scramble to make her world look presentable before stepping in to help. Together they cleared the floor, gathering clothes into a laundry basket, tossing away old bottles, smoothing the wrinkles in her bedding. By the end, the room felt lighter. Breathable. Not perfect—never perfect—but navigable.

Then they worked on the project. No words, no forced conversation, just quiet synchronicity. Two people who didn’t need explanations. Their movements matched like a practiced rhythm, fluid and natural, puzzle pieces that clicked because they were carved from similar fractures.

And when they finished, they sank onto her bed to rest. But rest transformed into something else. One moment Sylus was staring at the ceiling, the next MC’s lips were on his—soft, sudden, a question he didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t say no. Maybe he couldn’t. Not when she understood the kind of broken he was. Not when being with her made the world feel less heavy.

He kissed her back.

Everything blurred after that. Clothes that had once been neatly folded were thrown to the floor again—except this time, his were there too. Hands traced skin, mouths left blooming bruises, time sped so fast he couldn’t grasp a single moment long enough to feel it fully. It was frantic, desperate, two hurt people clinging to each other like they were trying to fill the cracks instead of acknowledging them.

He told himself it felt right. That two people with matching shadows were meant to collide like this. That it was natural for two broken pieces to fit together.

Unlike him and you. You, with your sunlight-heart and steady warmth. You, who didn’t understand the language of chaos because you were raised in a world that held you gently.

He forgot you. Forgot 2nd Ave. Forgot the plans you were excited to share. Forgot the place where you had always waited for him—always.

He forgot.

And as the night dissolved and reality settled, he thought he had finally made his choice. A choice shaped not by desire but by damage.

The fractures were slowly turning into bigger cracks.

The next day slipped past him like fog—soft, hazy, unreal. He had spent the night at MC’s house, limbs tangled beneath her wrinkled sheets, her warmth pressed against him. It was comforting in a way he didn’t expect, like sinking into a place that understood him without asking questions. It felt easy. It felt safe. It felt perfect in a way that scared him.

When morning crept in, MC stirred first, grumbling about hunger before tugging him out of bed. They padded down the hallway toward the kitchen, the air cold against their sleep-warm skin. MC’s father was nowhere to be seen. She mentioned casually that he was probably out doing drugs or something worse. Sylus didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. He just stood there, letting the words settle heavily between them.

The kitchen was barren—not even a granola bar tucked somewhere, not a forgotten snack in the corner. The emptiness contrasted sharply with yours, where every surface inexplicably hid candy like tiny, sweet surprises. He suggested a place before thinking, a slip of the tongue that would haunt him minutes later.

2nd Ave. Your place.

MC didn’t question it. She simply bought cup noodles and nudged one into his hands, leaving Sylus no choice but to follow her into the small, warm shop that had always been your safe haven. The two of them sat together, eating in silence that felt gentle and familiar—two people sharing the same kind of quiet.

She told a joke, something light and unexpected, and Sylus laughed. Really laughed. Loud enough to drown out the soft ding of the shop door opening behind him. He twirled noodles around his chopsticks, leaned over, and fed MC with a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. It was sweet. Soft. Almost romantic—at least, that’s what it would have been if he hadn’t turned his head at the wrong second.

There you were. Or rather—there you went.

A faint silhouette moving away, shoulders small, hands wrapped too tightly around a candy bar. The sight hit him like a cold hand to the chest. Guilt, sharp and immediate, washed over him. He pushed back his chair, ready to run after you, to explain, to do anything—

But MC was already lifting her chopsticks toward him, offering him her own noodles with a bright, oblivious smile.

He froze. And the moment passed.

The sweetness curdled in his mouth. The warmth between them suddenly felt suffocating. The shop felt too small, too exposed, too wrong. By the time he left MC’s house later that day—despite her urging him to stay another night—his thoughts were a tangled mess. He slipped into his own home like a ghost, shed his clothes on the floor, and stepped under the shower, letting the hot water burn against his skin.

He told himself this was for the best. That you would be better off without someone like him weighing down your life. A princess belonged beside a prince, not a knight with cracked armor and a home full of ghosts. Maybe distance was mercy. Maybe stepping back was protecting you in its own cruel way.

So with a heart that felt far too heavy for his chest, he crawled beneath the covers of his bed. In the darkness, he let his eyes fall shut and imagined a world where things made sense. Where he wasn’t constantly breaking the things he wanted to protect.

But the only way he could see that world was by keeping his eyes closed.

Sylus didn’t expect it. He had fallen asleep around two in the afternoon and didn’t wake until the next morning, roused only by MC’s messages lighting up his phone. He’d slept through the entire day. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe his body finally claimed the rest it had long been denied. Or maybe—just for a moment—he managed to dream of a life that felt worth waking up for, only to be pulled back into reality by a girl he never expected to grow close with. A girl who wasn’t his best friend. A girl who wasn’t you.

He barely realized what he was doing when he opened MC’s messages and agreed to an invitation he didn’t truly want—a movie date. It felt like he was simply following the script life handed him, whether he liked the scene or not. He went through the motions: showered, brushed his teeth, got dressed. His body moved on its own, driven not by thought but by the weight of everything he didn’t want to feel. He felt like a ghost of himself, drifting through the world. Numb. And numbness, he figured, was better than feeling anything at all.

When he met MC at the cinema, he tried to convince himself he was choosing the better path. That maybe you were somewhere out there writing your own story, finding your own prince. And Sylus—well, Sylus was supposed to be the knight. But what is a knight without a princess? A knight protects royalty… but was royalty ever truly beside him? Perhaps he had never been a knight in the first place—perhaps he was only a jester, someone meant to entertain, to fill silence, to stand in the background until needed. Maybe with you he could’ve been something more, but inside his own home he wasn’t even that—just an object of amusement for parents who treated him like a passing distraction.

The date went fine, he guessed. They watched the movie. They talked afterward. It was normal, casual, unremarkable.

Until MC asked him what they were.

What were they, really? Partners? Classmates? Friends? But friends don’t kiss, and friends don’t leave each other suspended in half-truths. So Sylus told her they were more than that, and MC lit up with excitement. Sylus simply… accepted it.

This was how it was supposed to be anyway. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Sylus didn’t expect to wake up to someone shaking him. It was still early, light filtering through the curtains in soft streaks—and there she was. MC. Smiling down at him like she belonged in that moment. She was startling him awake, insisting they should go to school together. He didn’t even know how she got into his house. And he didn’t ask.

Now he was going to school with his girlfriend. That word still felt wrong in his mind. They had walked this road together hundreds of times before, side by side, taking comfort in routine. But this time was different—this time she was his girlfriend. Not just a classmate. Not a friend. Something else. Something more, on paper. But not where it mattered.

Along the way, he felt her hand slip into his—warm, soft, fingers interlocking with his. He didn’t fight it, didn’t pull away. He just let her. Because that was how couples were supposed to walk. Holding hands, steps in sync. The way stories and movies said it should be.

Her hands were soft. Softer than he expected. Like they had never known weight or sorrow. He hadn’t realized just how unexpected that softness would feel against him. Then again, it made sense. Her room was always a mess, her hair always undone. She was laid back, unbothered. Only schoolwork ever seemed to make her hands move. Her mother’s voice was the only thing sharp in her world.

So as a gesture of comfort, Sylus squeezed her hand. Three times.

For a moment, he forgot where he was. Forgot what he was doing. You always understood the squeeze. You’d squeeze back four times—always four—like you were answering a question no one else could hear. But MC only smiled. She didn’t answer back. Not like you.

 Then something made her laugh. She stopped mid-step, eyes drawn to an ice cream shop on the corner. Your ice cream shop. Sylus’s chest tightened. She tugged him inside, face bright with desire, completely unaware of the memory she was walking him straight into. They had five minutes before class started. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t warn her. He just let her follow whatever whim she had.

She ordered her ice cream without a second thought. Something simple, something unremarkable. And Sylus, without thinking, ordered something familiar. Something he would have mocked before. Something he didn’t even realize he chose until it was already in his hand. The same thing you always ordered.

He didn’t say a word as he ate. Forced the cold into his mouth, letting the taste hit him like a memory he didn’t want to feel. And maybe it wasn’t as terrible as he always told you. Maybe he never hated it at all. He just liked the way you’d get passionate, the way you teased him for being annoying, the way you argued with fire in your eyes. He would do anything now just to argue with you again.

Now, that fire was gone. Replaced by silence. By unanswered calls. Unread messages. He told himself it was necessary. That this was how things had to be. That ignoring you was easier than facing the truth of what he was doing.

But the butterflies in his stomach never calmed. They twisted and clawed every time he thought of you.

They finished eating in silence, only talking to fill empty space. By the time MC checked the clock, they were already late. So they ran. They ran like it meant something. Like it would change what was already broken inside him.

Sylus was athletic, naturally strong in ways people didn’t expect. He carried the kind of muscle built out of quiet anger and survival. But somehow, the distance from the ice cream shop to the school building left him short of breath.

Now he was in front of the teacher. Sweating, exhausted, eyes heavy with thoughts he didn’t dare speak. He apologized, lied about sleeping past his alarm. Tried to play the part of the irresponsible teenager. But then he saw you.

Sitting in your usual seat. Eyes filled with worry. The empty space beside you felt like an invitation he didn’t deserve.

He sat down. But he refused to look at you. No greeting. No explanation. He stared forward like you weren’t there.

But you were too strong, too patient to be silent. You asked where he was. He told you the lie again. Overslept. But you had gone to his house that morning. And he wasn’t there.

He let out a breath. You thought it was annoyance. You thought he was tired of you, tired of your questions, tired of your care. You didn’t know he was trying to make it hurt just enough for you to leave. That he was picking his words carefully, trying to make you walk away without ever saying it outright. Because he’d decided three days ago. And he hated himself for it every single moment since.

Then he compared you to a mother—his mother —not out loud, but in the quiet parts of himself. A woman who gave love only for show. Who never hugged him unless someone was watching. A woman who taught him that affection could be a performance—and he swore he would never be that kind of person.

And yet here he was. Breaking you in silence.

You suggested you talk later. Tried to apologize for something you never even did. But he shook the offer away. Said that class was starting. The teacher was teaching. Something he usually wouldn’t give two shits about. Anything to push you further.

Anything to stop the ache he felt every time you were near.

And it worked. Or so he told himself.

But then you looked at him. Really looked. And you saw it. The faint purple bruises peeking out beneath, bruises he hadn’t thought to cover. Your eyes softened. He looked away.

And that was it.

That was the biggest crack of all.

Sylus knew you were trying to find him—he felt it like a pulse beneath his skin, a quiet pressure building in his chest. With the way he’d been avoiding you, like your presence alone could infect him with something he wasn’t brave enough to confront, it didn’t take much to decipher. The moment the bell rang, he bolted, fleeing the room before your voice could reach him. Before your pleas could unravel him. Before he could crumble in front of you and confess everything he’d tried so hard to bury.

So he did what he does best—run. Run from the things that scared him. Run from the truth. Run from you.

But you were never something to run from. You weren’t a problem—God, you were the farthest thing from it. How dare he twist something so gentle into something monstrous? The problem was him. Him, and the way he loved you too much. Him, and the terror of staining you with the mess he called a life. Him, pretending bravery he didn’t have. He wasn’t brave. He was a coward dressed in the armor of someone trying too hard.

He reaches the bleachers, searching for MC. They’d planned to eat together—somewhere quiet, somewhere the world couldn’t intrude. A small space carved from the chaos, where only their thoughts and shadows existed.

There she is, sitting on a red mat, waving him over with a soft smile. They share food. Sit in silence. Speak occasionally, as if the moments between them are smooth and natural—maybe they are. Maybe they’re supposed to be. Then MC notices a smear of mayo on his lip, and she wipes it away with her thumb, the gesture gentle, close, intimate in all the ways it should matter.

But Sylus feels nothing. No spark. No warmth. No pull.

And it’s wrong. Aren’t couples supposed to feel something? A flutter, a rush, a hint of giddiness? So why was he empty?

Desperate for something—anything—he leans in, kissing her. Moves his lips against hers, searching for a flicker of emotion. She responds, and they stay like that for ten slow seconds.

Ten seconds of trying. Ten seconds of hoping. Ten seconds wasted.

Nothing. He feels absolutely nothing, and the void inside him threatens to swallow him whole.

Why can’t he feel anything?

Then he hears it—a soft gasp. Barely a sound, barely more than breath. But it’s yours. Of course it is. He would know your voice even in a storm.

And when he pulls back, you’re already gone.

Sylus doesn’t know why, but the urge to apologize claws up his throat. Apologize for what? He wasn’t yours. He was allowed to kiss other girls. He didn’t owe you anything. So why did it feel like he’d broken something delicate? Something irreplaceable?

He mumbles an apology to MC, something vague about an urgent matter, and leaves before she can respond. He’s already chasing after your fading warmth.

You don’t notice him. You’re too consumed by the sharp crack of your own heart breaking. Your sobs echo like distant thunder in your ears, drowning out everything else. You don’t even see the person in front of you until you collide with his chest.

Sylus stops. Freezes. Feels something inside him glitch, stutter, collapse.

He wants to run to you. Wants to grab your shoulders, tilt your chin up, ask if you’re okay. Wants to kiss the spot where you hit your head and pull you into him like you’re something precious he can still protect.

But he’s too late.

The other guy reaches you first.

Sylus watches helplessly—watches as your eyes lift toward the stranger, watches as that man steadies you, watches him do everything Sylus should’ve done. Everything he should’ve been brave enough to offer.

And that’s the moment it finally hits him, sharp and merciless.

You were never meant to be his. It was impossible. A knight doesn’t get the princess. Not in stories like his.

He stands there, silent and small, as you unknowingly prove it—when you finally look up at someone who isn’t him, someone who might actually be able to love you without fear.

And Sylus realizes the truth he’d been running from:

He is the knight who arrives too late. And you—you have just found your prince.

Two years passed. Two years without you. Two years of seeing you every single day, yet doing nothing more than breathing in your direction and pretending it didn’t hurt.

At first, it broke him—shattered him, really. It took everything in him not to reach for you, not to sweep you back into the warmth he once believed he could offer. Because everywhere he went, he saw you. And you were always with him.

Now that he thinks about it, he knows exactly who the person was that caught you that day. Li Zayne. President of the Student Council—the one MC’s always spoken so highly of. The brilliant one. The polished one. The kind with a future scripted in gold. And apparently, he had the looks to match the legend. A whole package wrapped in charm.

But Sylus never cared to listen. He was too busy touching MC’s skin, trying to coax warmth into the cold hollowness spreading inside his chest. He drowned himself in her body, in her words, in her comfort—desperately trying to wash you out of him. And somehow, it worked.

You stopped haunting him. Your shadow stopped lingering behind every corner. He didn’t search for you anymore; he barely noticed you were around. Slowly, painfully, he started forgetting.

But the cost was too high. Because forgetting you meant forgetting himself. Sure, you no longer plagued his thoughts—yes—but nothing did. His mind quieted in the worst way, emptied itself out until he didn’t think, didn’t feel, didn’t want. He simply moved. Moved like he was following stage directions. Like someone else was puppeteering his limbs.

He didn’t notice you. He didn’t notice MC. He didn’t notice Zayne. He didn’t even notice himself.

Life became a routine—wake, shower, eat, school, laugh when expected, eat again, home, sleep. A cycle. A loop he didn’t intend to break. Out of fear. Out of cowardice. Out of the kind of love that claws, not blooms.

Then the word prom hit him like a blow to the ribs. You’d always wanted to go. Always looked at the posters and murmured that it must feel magical to step into a night like that. And he—foolishly, tenderly—had promised. Promised he’d take you. Promised you’d have your night, your dress, your brief moment of being a princess while he played the role of your knight one last time.

But now he stands in the middle of the gym, surrounded by cologne and perfume, by spinning lights and glitter. A hand rests on his shoulder. A hand that isn’t yours.

He forces himself to dance with his girlfriend, to spin with a smile that isn’t real. But his eyes betray him—slipping away from MC, searching the crowd with a hunger he tries to deny. What would you look like tonight? He’d imagined it too many times—your hair styled, your smile soft, the kind of beauty that could stop a room. Spinning around the gym like a princess in a borrowed fairy tale.

But you were nowhere. You never came.

While the music roared and the lights flickered, you sat alone in your bedroom. No makeup, no dress, no corsage. Loneliness, your uninvited date. But Sylus didn’t—couldn’t—know that.

Eventually, when MC was satisfied with the dancing, he excused himself for “air.” But his feet didn’t stop at the gym doors. 

They kept moving. And moving. And moving.

Until he reached your house.

He stood there, confused—or maybe pretending to be—trying to gather the courage to ask why you hadn’t come. To ask if you were okay. To ask if he still mattered.

But he froze. A sleek black car sat in your driveway. And it didn’t take a genius to know who it belonged to.

Zayne had become your company.

He was already too late. Again.

So with a heart too heavy for his chest, he straightened his armor—cold, cracked, unnecessary armor. He picked up his shield, the one he never stopped hiding behind.

And he walked away from the palace you called home.

Now it was the final fracture, the crack that would break everything. Sylus had done it. He had survived. Officially survived the last school year without you. The last two school years. He’d thought that would be the end of it—thought that one day the absence of you would hollow him out so completely that, when he finally shut his eyes, they simply wouldn’t dare open again. Unfortunately for him, that day never came. Most mornings he woke to his alarm—an alarm you set, a song you loved. Every dawn dragged him back to you; you were the first thought that bloomed in his mind before he could even remember his own name.

On some days, he woke to screaming. The familiar shatter of bottles had carved itself into routine. It happened so often now that Sylus wouldn’t have been surprised to open his eyes one morning to find one of them gone for good. But he learned to let the noise wash over him, learned to anchor himself to anything else. Just like he did every night.

Then, on certain mornings, MC would show up at his door to shake him awake, to drag him somewhere before classes. He’d gotten used to it by now. It wasn’t like he ever had much of a choice.

But today he walked alone—hoodie pulled over his head, AirPods sunk deep into his ears, drowning in a song he’d become obsessed with. He didn’t realize it yet, but he was running later than usual. Not terribly late, just three to five minutes—but for Sylus, that was enough to tilt the day off balance.

He drifted through the halls, oblivious to the chaos that clung to the edges of the morning. Oblivious to the stares. Oblivious to the whispers that rose and fell around him like ghosts.

He reached the classroom and silently thanked whatever fickle star had kept the teacher from arriving on time. He stood there, staring at the whiteboard, music flooding his senses. He zoned out—again. It happened so often now that he never even noticed it happening.

Then he turned around. And he saw you.

A cluster of girls surrounded you, their laughter bright and rising, like something out of a life that had never belonged to him. They were giggling about something—or someone—but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

All he cared about was you.

After Zayne graduated, you had become a ghost of yourself. A loner with no orbit, no crowd. You kept to the back of the room, tethered to your phone or a book—anything that could keep you safely tucked away from people.

But now you stood there. You were finally letting the world touch you again.

Something inside Sylus flickered to life—something warm, something hopeful. Relief unfurled in his chest, soft and aching. You were getting better. You were learning to live without him. He’d always known you could.

He moved to sit down. But then your eyes found his.

He didn’t realize it, but he gave you a look. A look full of hurt, edged with something like relief. Hurt that you were forgetting him—truly forgetting him. Even when you had Zayne, there had always been a sliver of hope in your eyes reserved just for him. But now… now your gaze held something different. Something he couldn’t name. Something that churned in his stomach like a warning.

He swallowed it down, forced himself to believe it meant nothing. That he had more important things to worry about than the way your eyes suddenly felt colder or further or unreadable.

He slipped into the farthest chair from you, determined to break your gaze before he melted right there under its weight.

He didn’t know it yet, but the walls he built around you—the ones he crafted with trembling hands and desperate vows, the promises he swore would stand forever—had finally collapsed.

The kingdom he tried to create for you, stone by stone, hope by fragile hope, had crumbled into nothing. Fallen. Shattered. Reduced to dust that slipped through his fingers before he even realized he was losing you.

Sylus decided he was done for the day. He told MC he was heading home, unaware of the storm waiting for him behind his own front door. He walked quietly, slipping his AirPods back in, letting the music soften the heaviness in his chest—just enough to keep him upright.

He passed your house. It still looked exactly the same as it did years ago—warm, gentle, alive. A home that breathed comfort. A home that once held him like family. Now, he didn’t dare consider himself worthy of such warmth. The familiar ache bloomed inside his chest as memories of your shared castle of safety clawed at him. So he forced his gaze away and kept walking, distancing himself from the only real warmth he had ever known.

When he reached his house, silence greeted him—unnatural, suffocating silence. He slipped off his shoes and stepped inside. His parents weren’t home. Probably out chasing separate disasters, both too busy unraveling to notice he was unraveling too.

His stomach grumbled, so he went to the kitchen to look for food. That’s when he saw it—a note on the table. Something twisted in him because part of him already knew what it was. Another part begged to believe it wasn’t real. But with trembling fingers, he picked it up and read. The handwriting was frantic, smudged, angry, words scratched out until the paper nearly tore.

Sylus, your father and I are fucking done. I’m done with his bullshit, done with the way he treats me, treats you, treats us! I’m so fucking tired. I’m taking him to court. I’m getting a fucking divorce. I tried so hard to keep this family afloat because you needed more than just a mother, but look where that led me. Your father already packed his bags. You’re not going to see that bastard ever again. Today was the last straw—I saw him bring someone over. Had sex in our fucking bedroom.

His hands shook. Even expecting this didn’t ease the sting. His eyes burned, filling with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped them away, swallowing the pain like he always did.

A strange, thin relief threaded through him—finally, no more screaming. No more plates thrown. No more war. But the relief didn’t settle. It only left him hollow. He crushed the note in his fist and threw it away. His appetite vanished completely.

He needed someone. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t make him feel like he was being swallowed whole by silence. He grabbed his phone, saw MC’s name, and walked out of the house.

He didn’t knock on her door—her home was just as empty as his. Her father went on business, her mother gone for months. He climbed the stairs and found her on her bed, scrolling through her phone.

“Sylus?” she said when he opened the door, but before she could fully take in his expression, he was already kissing her—desperate, frantic, wordless.

One thing led to another, and soon they were tangled under her sheets, bodies locked together in a heat that offered neither of them comfort. Sylus had hoped it would make him feel something—connection, relief, anything—but instead it only deepened the hollow pit inside him. He stayed silent afterward, holding MC’s hand because he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

Dusk settled, exhaustion took over, and they drifted to sleep. MC woke first as she always did, fixing herself and waiting for him to stir. Sylus woke in a cold sweat, as if he’d just been shaken awake from a world ending. He’d dreamt of his parents fighting, of his younger self abandoned and alone—and worst of all, of you. You, looking at him with pure disgust, hatred twisting your features every time his name was spoken.

MC asked him what was wrong, but before he could answer, she whispered her guess. “Is it because of the rumors?”

He frowned. “Rumors?”

“About… you know.” She lowered her voice, saying your name like it was something dangerous.

Confusion washed over him. Rumors? About you? You who barely spoke, who folded yourself into corners to avoid attention. But MC continued, explaining everything—the accusations, the names, the mockery.

And suddenly, everything made sense. Yesterday, you weren’t talking with friends. They were laughing at you. Picking you apart. Using you as a joke.

Sylus felt his blood run cold. His stomach twisted violently. What had they said to you? What lies had they fed you? Had they hurt you? Had you believed them? Was that why you looked at him with such betrayal?

MC wasn’t even finished when Sylus had already pulled on his clothes and bolted out the door. Rage and grief and fear tangled in his chest until he could barely breathe. He sprinted toward your house, desperate to make sure you were okay.

Passing his house, something caught his eye—two boxes on the front porch, one large, one small. Maybe his father’s things? Maybe—No. Not now. Not important.

He reached your house and knocked urgently. Then louder. Then louder still. He yelled your name. Called for your parents. Rang the doorbell until his finger hurt.

Nothing.

Not a single sign of life. No footsteps. No voices. No shadows behind curtains.

Maybe you went on a trip, he tried to tell himself. Maybe.

He pulled out his phone. Opened your chat. The last message was from you—two years ago.

“I’m sorry.”

His chest cracked open. He should’ve been the one apologizing. He always should’ve been the one apologizing.

He typed message after message: “Where are you?” “Can we talk?” “I’m so sorry.” “I’m waiting for you.” “I’ll keep waiting for you.” “I always do.”

He hit send—and each message turned green. Not blue. Green.

You blocked him. Erased him. Cut the last thread tying you together.

Pain stabbed through him like a blade. He stood there for a moment, breathless, defeated, then walked back to the empty house waiting for him.

The boxes were still there. Something compelled him to bring them inside. He set them down, chest tight, and opened the larger one. The first thing inside was his hoodie—wrinkled, soft, familiar. The one he gave you. The one that still carried his cologne. The one you had held onto.

Next came his blanket, then his pencil, the eraser you chewed, the notebook you shared, his spare keys—every piece of him he had ever given you. Every memory. Every reminder.

The guilt slammed into him like a wave, heavy and merciless. He had broken every promise he made to you. He tore down the walls he built to protect you. He broke you.

Tears finally fell, unstoppable. He didn’t bother wiping them away. He let himself cry—truly cry—for the first time in years.

His gaze fell to the smaller box. He opened it. Inside were ten jars of paper stars.

You had kept making them. For him. Always for him.

Sylus shattered. He fell to his knees, sobbing—raw, broken cries ripping out of him. It felt like mourning someone who was still alive but lost forever. Because he was. You were gone, and he was the reason.

He left the boxes—the memories, the stars, the guilt—on the kitchen table. He couldn’t take them to his room. They didn’t belong there. Nothing did.

He cried himself to sleep in a house that felt like a stranger. His mother didn’t come home. His father never would again. He was completely, utterly alone.

But even then— even broken, even abandoned—he waited.

For you to return from some imagined family trip. For him to explain everything. For the chance to finally say he was sorry.

He waited. Because that was the only thing he had ever known how to do when it came to you.

You never came back to the neighborhood. Your parents returned, but you didn’t step out of the car with them. Your absence clung to the street like fog—dense, cold, impossible to breathe through.

Sylus became a wreck of the boy he once was. He lived with heavy, bruised eyebags carved so deep they made him look half-dead, like something haunted the bones of his face. A ghost wearing his skin. A ghost still searching for the only person who ever made him feel alive.

He drowned himself in alcohol. His father once told him that drinking made the world softer, quieter, that it washed problems away like rain. It didn’t. Not for Sylus.

Every drink, every burning swallow, he hoped it would blur you—erase you—give him even one second of numbness. But instead, you sharpened. You were the only thing he saw. You were in the rim of his glass, in the reflection of the bottle, in the burn sliding down his throat.

Alcohol didn’t help him forget. It made him remember.  It forced him to relive everything—every mistake, every moment he let you slip through his fingers, every version of you he destroyed by being exactly who he feared he’d become.

And it was eating him alive, piece by piece, memory by memory.

He tried to stop drinking once he started hallucinating you. He’d see you sitting at the edge of his bed, head tilted, the way you used to look at him when you were trying to understand him. He’d hear your laughter echoing faintly down the hall. He’d feel the ghost of your fingertips brushing his wrist.

When he tried to quit, the world became too quiet—so quiet it felt cruel.  Cruel enough to laugh at him. Cruel enough to remind him that the silence existed only because you were gone.

So he drank again.And again. Because with alcohol, at least he could still see you. Even if you were only an illusion. Even if the you he saw was stitched together by grief and guilt.

His mother didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. She was too busy grieving the man his father once pretended to be—the man he could’ve been if he didn’t crumble under his own shadows.

And watching her mourn made Sylus hate himself more. Because somewhere along the way, he became both of them. A drunk like his father. Fragile like his mother. A perfect reflection of everything he swore he’d never become.

He had lost everything. Everything.

He wasn’t a knight anymore. Because a knight is nothing without his princess—and you had vanished without a trace, disappearing from his life like morning fog burning off under the sun.

Now, every time he closed his eyes, it was your face that greeted him. Your eyes that haunted him. Your name that echoed in the hollow chambers of his chest.

You were gone. But you never stopped ruining him in the most beautiful, devastating way.

a/n: and that concludes part 2. i hope this part gave you guys a bit of closure. im so sorry TwT. they all deserved better, it hurt me writing this.

so uh... part 3? as promised, taglist:@fruitymoonbeams-blog, @babygirl-panda19, @theliving-radio, @seraphineash, @nm4565natty, @glassandhoney, @violentriddlehoard, @animegamerfox, @noxus123, @deadlyskepticalnightmare. @bruisedchickensoup

Humingang malalim, pumikit na muna At baka sakaling, namamalikmata lang (Take a deep breath, close your eyes Maybe your eyes are just playing tricks)

Pale eyelids cover bloodshot eyes as Sylus takes a jagged, stuttering breath, trying to anchor himself to the present. He is the leader of Onychinus; he is the man who fears nothing, yet here he is, trembling in a crowded terminal.

Not two seconds ago, a girl had drifted past him. She had the exact same silkiness to her hair, that specific shade that used to catch the morning light on the pillows. She smelled of the same rainfall and vanilla that used to cling to his skin after a long night. His head swerved with a violent, desperate hunger—a hunter spotting a ghost.

His heart hammered a rhythm of pure, agonizing hope. Why would you be here in the N109 Zone? Why would you walk past him with such cold, vacant eyes, as if the years of shared breaths and whispered promises were nothing more than static?

He blinked, his vision fracturing. When he looked again, the girl was gone. The space she occupied was filled by the gray, smog-choked air of the city. It wasn't you. It was never you. It was just another cruel trick played by a mind that refused to accept its own ruin.

“Sylus…!”

The voice was airy, a soft vibration that seemed to come from the very walls of the penthouse.

Sylus, who had been trying to lose himself in the dense prose of a book, froze. The silence of the room was suddenly heavy, expectant. His ears perked, his head snapping toward the empty doorway. For a heartbeat, the lethal edge in his eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, naked vulnerability that would have sent his enemies into a frenzy.

Then, reality settled in like a layer of ash. His eyebrows furrowed, a deep, bitter shame burning in his gut as he turned back to his book, glaring at the ink until the letters looked like crawling insects.

Who was he kidding? He was alone. The twins were out on a mission, and Mephisto’s cage was unnervingly still. The silence wasn’t a peace; it was a vacuum, sucking the air out of his lungs.

With a frustrated snarl, he slammed the book shut and stood, his leather chair groaning under the sudden movement. He paced to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring down at the glowing, neon veins of the empire he ruled. On the mahogany table sat a crystal glass of whiskey, the ice long since melted into a watery grave. He grabbed it, downing the lukewarm amber liquid in one go, desperate for the burn to reach the places where he felt nothing but a hollow chill.

He had tried to bury it all. He had stitched the wounds you left behind with iron thread, covering the scars with expensive silk and cold indifference. But the stitches were rotting. Why did your voice still echo in the marble hallways? Why did you haunt the quietest moments of his life?

Sylus was a man of infinite means. If you had asked for the moon, he would have dragged it from the sky by tomorrow morning. If you wanted to own a star, he would have laid a map of the galaxy at your feet and told you to choose.

But he couldn't buy the one thing he actually needed. He couldn't command the one wish that kept him awake until the sun turned the horizon into a bruise.

The wish to let you go.

Because in every dark corner, in every reflection of the glass, your face was the only thing he could see.

The mission had been a success by every objective standard, but as Sylus stood in the wreckage of the warehouse, he felt like he was drowning in lead.

An innocent had been caught in the crossfire—a little girl, barely ten years old, with eyes too big for her face. Her father had been a coward, a man who traded his daughter’s safety for a few more seconds of his own pathetic life.

While the twins held the man into place, Sylus pulled out his gun and aimed for the man’s head. But as soon as that happened, a little girl came out from her hiding spot and guarded her father.

Of course, Sylus was no monster. He lowered the gun and told the girl to leave. But she stayed put and told Sylus no. Sylus reached out, his hand steady and slow, intending to gently move the girl behind him. He didn’t want her to see what came next. "Move, kid," he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "This isn't your debt to pay."

But the father didn't see a rescue; he saw an opening.

As the girl hesitated, the man’s face contorted with a frantic, ugly desperation. Before Sylus could blink, the father lunged forward—not to save his daughter, but to seize her. He snatched her by the shoulders, wrenching her small frame backward to use as a human shield, his fingers digging into her arms.

But the father had tripped. A sickening, metallic thud echoed through the hollow warehouse as the girl was shoved onto the sharp, protruding steel corner of a crate.

The silence that followed was a physical weight. The girl didn't scream; she simply stopped.

Sylus didn't wait for an explanation. The fury in his chest turned into a lethal, blinding red light. A small, muffled explosion followed—the sound of a man’s life ending in a spray of bone and regret.

Now, hours later, the phantom image of that girl’s pale hand was burned into his retinas. He had someone to lean on once. Someone who would have held his face in their hands and whispered that the world was cruel, but he didn't have to be.

He got on his bike and rode until the city was a blur of neon streaks. He stopped at the furthest, most desolate edge of the N109 Zone and began to walk. He had walked this path a thousand times before.

The difference was, you used to be there. You used to walk on his right side, your fingers interlacing with his, swinging your joined hands back and forth as you hummed a melody that made the darkness feel less like a threat and more like a blanket.

Now, his right hand hung heavy and cold at his side.

But as the sun began to dip below the jagged skyline, he felt it. A pressure. The ghost of a sensation—small, warm fingers sliding into the gaps of his own. A warmth engulfed his palm, so real he could almost feel the pulse in your wrist. He looked down, his breath catching in a throat that felt like it was filled with glass.

A shadow filled the space beside him. A silhouette of a person, perfectly matched to his stride, holding his hand as if you had never left.

He squeezed back, but his fingers only met the cold, biting air. He felt like he was being buried alive, the dirt filling his mouth, his lungs, his heart, until there was nothing left but the suffocating weight of what used to be.

Sylus couldn’t let go—God, he was losing his grip on everything else, but he couldn’t let go of that.

Not when you broke into his mind every night like a thief who already owned the keys. You roamed through the corridors of his consciousness with a terrifying familiarity, moving the furniture of his thoughts until his head didn't feel like his own anymore. It was your home now; he was just the hollowed-out shell left to guard it.

Whenever he sought the mercy of sleep, your eyes were there, staring back from the underside of his eyelids—vivid, haunting, and agonizingly present. He couldn't even claim the sanctuary of a dream anymore; you were the only dream he was allowed to have, a recurring ghost that woke him up just to remind him that the bed beside him was cold.

In the pitch black, when the world disappeared, the sensory memory of you became a physical weight. He could feel the phantom pressure of your ghost-weight against his side, the static electricity of your skin that wasn't there. He found himself perching on the edge of madness, genuinely wanting to never wake up again. He wanted to drown in the darkness of his own "fucked up" head, because in the wreckage of his mind, you were still beside him. In there, the world hadn't ended yet.

But the haunting was cannibalizing him.

He was deteriorating, his iron will fraying like an old rope. Every time you "popped" into his mind, it took a piece of him back to the grave with you. He was a man dying in the light of a memory. He was starving for a way out, desperate for someone—anyone—to light a candle, to flick a switch, to burn away the shadows of a feeling he couldn't outrun.

He was being haunted by a presence he couldn't grasp, trapped in a house of mirrors where every reflection was a version of you he could no longer touch.

"Damn it, let me fucking go!"

The scream was a jagged thing, tearing his throat raw as he collapsed onto the dirty, frozen gravel. He clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as if he could physically pull the thoughts of you out by the roots. His shoulders heaved, the first sob breaking through him like a dam bursting.

“I can’t go on!” he choked out, his face pressed against the grit of the earth. “I can’t live in this wreckage when you keep turning up in places you shouldn’t be!”

His voice was a wreck, cracking and splintering with every word. “Stop showing up. Stop making me feel you. Stop... stop fucking haunting me!”

The silence of the wasteland offered no answer. He slumped, his forehead resting on the ground, hot tears carving tracks through the dust on his face. “Just stop,” he whispered, his spirit finally snapping under the pressure. “Leave me alone. Please.”

He forced himself to stand, his eyes swollen and burning, the world blurring into a smear of gray and red. He took a long, shaky breath, tasting the salt of his own grief, and finally turned his head to look at the thing he had been avoiding all night.

The shadow was gone. There were no humming voices, no warm fingers.

Only the cold, unyielding beauty of a marbled gravestone.

Your name was carved deep into the stone, the edges sharp and clean, mocking him with its permanence. Below it, the dates of a life that had ended far too soon. Red daturas—the flowers of death and obsession—grew in a wild, suffocating tangle around the base, their petals looking like fresh blood against the white marble.

Sylus stared at the place where you really were, buried beneath six feet of earth and a million regrets.

“I miss you so much,” he whispered, the words sounding hollow and frail in the wind. “But you have to let me go. Because I don't think I'll ever be strong enough to let go of you.”

(Won’t you leave me? Isn’t torturing me enough? Will I ever be at peace? Will I ever be at peace?) Hindi mo ba ako lilisanin? Hindi pa ba sapat, pagpapahirap sakin? Hindi na ba, ma-mamamayapa? Hindi na ba ma-mamamayapa?