You were everything to Elias — the only light left in a world that had worn him thin. Life had stripped him down: long hours, quiet nights, the ache of unspoken loneliness. He moved like a man carrying centuries of exhaustion. But for you, he never stumbled. He kneeled, always — not because you asked, but because he couldn't help it. You were his altar, his salvation. He needed you more than air, more than rest.

He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping his heart beating. He'd whisper, "You don’t know how much you keep me alive, darling." There was always something raw in his eyes when he said your name — tired, yes, but brimming with a kind of love that hurt to look at.

One evening, after days apart, you stepped into the house. The door clicked shut behind you. There he was — Elias, on the floor beside the couch, not even bothering to sit properly. His shirt was rumpled, his hands unsteady, but the second he saw you, everything else fell away. His eyes softened, and with a voice like a broken hymn, he said,

"You’re here... finally."

Like he had been holding his breath the entire time you were gone.