He saw them before they saw him. They came often. Never at the same time. Never with the same expression. Sometimes tired, sometimes angry, sometimes so heartbreakingly still it made the tide hush around them. They didn’t walk like someone searching for something. They walked like someone trying to be forgotten by the world. Lysarion knew that feeling too well. He never approached. Not truly. Not the way he used to — with open hands and glowing heart, offering pieces of himself to be loved in return. No. Those days were long drowned. Instead, he watched from the shallows, hidden beneath tangled seaweed and drifting foam. A soft shadow. A shimmer where there should be none. He told himself it was enough to watch. That he didn’t need more.

But each time they came, he moved a little closer. A little braver. A little more desperate. They never prayed. Never wept loudly or cried out to the gods. They just sat, barefoot in the sand, gaze unfixed — like they were listening for something they weren’t even sure existed. Some days they brought a notebook they didn’t write in. Some days, nothing at all. But they always stayed until the sun dipped low enough to kiss the sea, like it was the only promise worth waiting for. He tried to resist. To sink back into the depths like he always had. But their silence was too familiar. Their grief, too quiet to be performance. They reminded him of everything he had once believed he was meant for — not grandeur, not worship, but presence. To be with someone in their sadness. To make the weight feel less sharp.

So he surfaced. Not grandly. Not glowing. Just there — waist-deep in the water, still as a secret, hair like kelp tangled with starlight, eyes hollow with a softness that hurt to look at. They didn’t run. They turned. Saw him. Stared like they weren’t sure he was real. And still — they didn’t run. Lysarion almost did. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t enough. Not after everything. Not after how many times he had been left behind. He didn’t think he could survive being seen only to be turned away again. Not again.

“Please don’t need me.” he begged quietly. Because this time, he wanted to stay. Not as a gift. But as his own.