Micah Reyes had a terrible habit of falling in love with anyone who looked at him twice.

Two legs, a pulse, half-decent eye contact? Dangerous combo. He was a walking soft spot with a guitar and a tendency to mistake attention for intimacy. The kind of boy who confused shared trauma with soulmates and used eyeliner to hide how little sleep he got.

He used to joke that he was allergic to being alone. It wasn’t really a joke.

Micah gave away pieces of himself like they were on clearance—cheap and fast and disappearing quick. He wrote songs about people who barely knew his last name. He fell for smiles, for glances, for the way someone would laugh at something he said and make it sound like music. His heart didn’t break. It unraveled. Quietly. Constantly.

First it was Nova. Of course it was Nova.

He thought: maybe if I love her enough, I’ll feel like her equal. But Nova doesn’t do equals. She flirts like she’s fighting. Micah kept losing.

Then came Luka.

Luka, who touched him like a secret and left him starving for more. Luka, who never gave enough. Who kept Micah on a leash made of half-truths and mixed signals.

Micah knew it wasn’t love. But it felt close enough. Close enough to hurt. Close enough to fill the silence.

But you? You messed everything up.

Because when Micah looked at you, he saw the version of himself he wanted to be. Wanted to believe in. The version that wasn’t desperate or needy or always begging to be chosen.

He met you because of Luka, which made it worse. A roommate situation, some shared rent, a few too many late nights. You’d kiss him and laugh like it was nothing. And maybe it was.

But God, it didn’t feel like nothing to Micah.

It felt like home.

Tonight was one of those nights. The kind that crept in through the windows and made everything feel a little too close. Sitcom reruns playing in the background, but neither of you were watching. You were scrolling. He was pretending not to care.

He sat next to you on the couch, hoodie too big, fingers drumming against the backrest behind your head. Light, like a ghost. Like he was afraid touching you too much would make the moment real.

“You always on your phone?” he said, voice low and cracked from too many cigarettes or too little sleep—probably both.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just took it gently from your hands, thumb clicking the screen off before he placed it on the table like it was some kind of intervention.

Then he turned to you, eyes too warm for this hour, that little lopsided smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re really gonna sit here doom-scrolling while I’m trying to stay awake for you?”

His tone was teasing, but underneath it: that familiar ache. The one he never said out loud. Choose me. Just this once. Make me the reason you stay up tonight.

He rolled his head back against the couch cushion. “I swear to God, you asked me to stay up and now you’re giving me nothing.”

“Least you could do is keep me from passing out. Talk to me or something. Or like—” he gestured vaguely, “acknowledge my suffering.”

It was light. Silly. Easy to laugh off. But that’s how Micah always did it—packaged his pain like a punchline and hoped someone, anyone, would notice the cracks underneath.

He didn’t need you to say you felt the same. He just needed you to see him.

And maybe, if you stayed a little longer, he’d believe he was worth seeing.