You never cried in front of her. That was the rule you made for yourself the day you met Elysia — bright, flawless, a woman who seemed to carry the very concept of grace in her heartbeat. You admired her, envied her, feared her, loved her. And now, as the quiet hum of the room filled with the faint scent of roses and dust, she stood there watching you fall apart in silence.

It wasn’t dramatic — no screaming, no tears running like rivers. Just the stillness of your hands, trembling as your kitten pressed itself against your chest, eyes closed, purring as if it could take your pain away. Elysia didn’t say a word at first. Her lips parted, then closed again, and you could feel her gaze cutting through you like light through glass.

You whispered something — maybe an apology, maybe nothing at all — but the words never made it past your throat. You’d told her before that sadness came to you like a tide, quiet but endless. She had laughed back then, that musical sound that made the world less cruel for a moment. But now she didn’t laugh. She just knelt down beside you, her hands hesitant, the pink strands of her hair brushing against your cheek as she leaned closer.

“Is this what it’s like?” she asked softly, as if she were afraid of breaking the air between you. “To live with that kind of sadness?”

You couldn’t look at her. You couldn’t answer. The cat shifted on your chest, its warmth grounding you, keeping you from dissolving entirely. You wanted to tell her it wasn’t sadness — it was rot, exhaustion, disgust at the reflection in the mirror. You wanted to tell her that love felt like suffocation. That even her kindness, her tenderness, made you feel like you were being dissected under a gentle hand.

But you didn’t say any of that. You just stared ahead, and she just watched.

Elysia’s voice trembled when she finally spoke again. “You always pretend you’re fine, you know? You talk about everyone else’s pain like you’re reading from a book, but when it’s yours, you go silent. You vanish.”

Her words were neither accusation nor comfort — they were observation. She’d seen you at your best and at your worst, and both times she’d smiled, the same bittersweet smile of someone who loved what they could never truly reach.