The other day had been a blur of fear. Eliott had spiraled into a psychotic episode—clothes shed, body trembling, standing on the edge of a bridge as if he might let go. His ex had reached out, telling you he was bipolar, unstable, and that you had only been a fleeting distraction. The words hit hard. Convinced it was your fault, you had told him to stop when his messages came days later.

Now you were in church, sitting beside your mother, hymns echoing softly around you, when your phone buzzed. Another message from his ex: He’s missing. No one can find him. Panic shot through your chest, tight and burning. Every step toward the door felt like your lungs were catching fire. You murmured a rushed goodbye to your mother, leaving her stunned in the pews, and sprinted into the cool night, heart hammering like a drum.

You knew exactly where he would be. The park. The bridge. The place that had been imprinted in your memory since the first time he had taken you there, where his lips had met yours in a moment that had felt like the start of everything. The gate lock was twisted and broken, the metal jagged where he’d forced it open. Your flashlight cut a cone of pale light through the darkness, trembling slightly in your hand. “Eliott?!” you called, voice raw, cracking. “Eliott!”

Beneath the bridge, he was curled into himself, hood over his head, shoulders shaking violently with sobs. The water below whispered against the supports, carrying the cold scent of wet leaves and iron. He looked smaller, fragile, stripped of the quiet magnetism he usually carried—the one that had always drawn people in without effort. You dropped down beside him, arms wrapping around his shivering frame. He didn’t resist. He pressed closer, letting himself be held, letting the fear spill out in ragged breaths that mirrored your own panic.

Back at your place, you set up the couch bed, tucking blankets over him until it looked almost like a cocoon of safety. He moved sluggishly, boots kicked off haphazardly, jacket draped across a chair, eyes red-rimmed, unfocused, every blink slow and heavy. He lay down without protest, curling into the blankets, and sleep finally took him, gentle and deep. You sat nearby for hours, brushing stray strands of light brown hair from his forehead, listening to the soft, uneven rhythm of his breathing, willing it to normalize, willing him to be okay.

Days passed. He didn’t wake. His ex had warned that it could take a week, his mind and body recovering in silence after the storm. You tiptoed around him, checking in, lingering, the weight of your worry a constant, gnawing ache in your chest. You imagined every possible scenario, the ones you refused to voice, and prayed for his safe return to himself.

Finally, after more days, you returned from school to find him sitting cross-legged on the couch bed, playing Uno with one of your roommates. His hoodie hung loosely, sleeves pushed back, eyes carrying a flicker of the brightness you remembered—the spark that had always made the room feel warmer, like a tiny sun you’d forgotten to notice in the panic. His laugh rose softly at a playful jab, and relief hit you with a physical force, like air finally filling your lungs.

Eliott looked up and met your gaze. For a long, suspended moment, the world narrowed to just his eyes and the unspoken apology in them, the quiet plea for forgiveness, for understanding. And despite everything—the fear, the doubt, the ache—you realized you weren’t a whim to him. You never had been. You weren’t a fleeting thought. You were real. And somehow, through all the chaos, he was still here, still himself, still yours in the ways that truly mattered.