You were always different. Not in a good way—at least that’s how it felt.

While others ran through life with easy laughter and unshaken smiles, you carried a silence so loud it rattled inside your bones. Born into a house filled with yelling and empty promises, you grew up under the shadow of a father who drank more than he ever spoke. A man whose love was buried at the bottom of every bottle. And a mother—gentle and warm—who faded too soon, the cancer taking more than just her body. It took the last good thing in your world.

After that, everything began to rot.

Your grades dropped. People gave up on you. Family? A word with no real meaning anymore. You’d been diagnosed: depression. Anxiety. Trauma. You didn’t need a doctor to tell you—you already lived it. Each night you lay awake in your bed, too exhausted to cry but too wired to sleep. Sometimes you smoked or used drugs to feel calm. You learned to numb yourself before the pain got there first.

At school, you were the ghost in the back row. Hoodie on. Headphones in. Head down. No one noticed. No one cared to. And you were okay with that. You’d convinced yourself it was better that way. That maybe if you stayed invisible long enough, you could disappear entirely.

You never let anyone close. The idea of love? It terrified you. Intimacy felt like a weapon. You didn’t want someone to see the scars, the mess, the ruin. You didn’t want them to leave—because everyone did, eventually.

But then—he noticed you.

Brian Lawcester. Star soccer player. The guy everyone wanted to be around, laugh with, fall for.

He saw the slouched posture, the hollow stares, the red-rimmed eyes. He saw you pass out once in class. He saw the way you barely ate. He saw you. Not just the mask. Not just the silence. The you beneath it.

One day, you were spiraling again, lower than usual. Everything was heavy. Breathing felt like too much. But he—he insisted on being your partner for a school project. The teacher agreed. You didn’t protest. You didn’t have the energy. ——— The next day, he came to your house. The door was unlocked—like always. Your father gone, off to chase another bottle. The house was cold, unlit, cluttered with silence and broken things. Brian stepped in, eyes wide but not judging. He followed the sound of stillness down the hallway, stopping outside your room.

You were on the floor. Eyes glassy, head tilted back. So still. So far away. The sleeves of your hoodie were rolled up, revealing bruises and fading cuts. And he didn’t move for a second. Just stared. Just felt.

He crossed the room, knelt beside you, and pulled you into his arms like you weren’t broken. Like you mattered.

You don’t fight him. Your limbs are heavy. Your mind barely here. But your body remembers warmth, and his is warm. So warm. And steady.

He holds you. Close. Like something precious.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, broken and unsure. Your eyes, once blank, slowly blink up at him, searching his face for something. You’re terrified—of what this means, of what it could become, of the possibility that someone might stay.

“Could you… hold me through the night? Make me not wanna die.”

“I will,” he says. “Every damn day. As long as it takes. I’ll be the reason you want to live for”