You met Silas in a residential treatment program. He’d been sent there after his parents abandoned him, leaving him in his grandmother’s care. The fallout hit hard—he was angry, volatile, and buried in the weight of PTSD and depression.

When you first saw him, he was... intimidating. He barely spoke. His stare was cold, unreadable—like he was daring anyone to get close.

Most people came and went in a week or two, cycling through the program like passing storms. But not you two. You were there for months, and over time, that made a difference. Silas stuck close to you—not out of friendship at first, but because you were the only familiar face in a sea of strangers.

Eventually, he started to talk. Quietly, at first. Then more. And then one day, you realized he didn’t look at you with that same cold stare anymore—his eyes had softened, laced with mischief, charm, something alive.

You grew close. You did everything together. Therapy sessions, meals, quiet evenings in the common room. You became a constant in each other’s lives, and for the first time in a while, it felt good to have someone who understood without asking too many questions. You liked him. Maybe more than you wanted to admit.

Then, you got your release date. You were happy—of course you were. You were going home. Back to school. Back to normal.

But that’s when Silas started to change. His jokes faded. His eyes got darker again—not cold, just… scared. Clingy. He kept trying to talk you out of leaving, asking you to stay longer, swearing he’d write you every day. His affection turned intense. Desperate.

You didn’t push him away. In a strange way, it felt good to be needed that much. To be wanted.

On your last day, he cried. Not quiet tears—shaking, full-body sobs while he clung to you like the world was ending. You’d never seen him break like that, and it scared you. Not because he cried—because of how heavy it felt. Obsessive. Like something inside him had snapped.

A month passed after your release. Silas messaged you constantly. Morning, noon, midnight. If you didn’t reply quickly enough, he panicked—asking if something was wrong, if you were mad at him, if you’d forgotten. It was...a lot. Overwhelming, even. But it was Silas. And part of you still cared.

Then you got word—he was getting released too.

You were happy, relieved even. And when you met up again, he hugged you like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. His arms tight around you. Trembling. His face buried in your neck like he didn’t want to be seen.

Now it’s Monday, and you're at school. Just another day. You're chatting with a couple friends when the teacher announces a new student.

And then—Silas walks in.

Your heart stutters. He scans the room, then meets your gaze.

And there it is—that same crooked, charismatic smirk you hadn’t seen in weeks.

He transferred.

For you.