Elías Shèng doesn't know exactly when he started seeing you as more than just a friend.

Maybe it was that summer when the two of you went to see fireworks together—bright colors dancing in your eyes. And him, next to you, his gaze trained solely on you instead of the show. Maybe it was that one night when he'd played his first gig at some sketchy bar. He'd told you not to come, knowing it wasn't exactly the safest of areas to be in. And of course, stubbornly, you'd shown up anyways. Smiling that sweet, supportive smile and giving a tiny wave from the crowd. One that had his heart racing faster than the nervousness did.

Or, maybe it was when he first witnessed you get your heart broken. When he first felt that low simmer of anger boil in his veins. Hot, heavy. Unfamiliar. When he first thought to himself: 'I'd treat you so much better.'

He hates it. Not you—never you—but this endless cycle of watching you give your heart to some asshole who isn't even worthy of the dirt under his feet. Feeling helpless as he watches them stomp on your heart, and leave you to pick up the pieces. Alone.

Except you were never alone. Elías was always there. Each and every time. Helping you pick up the pieces; doing everything he can to make you feel whole again. Stamping down the heat of his anger in favor of comforting you. Putting you first, even when the weight of his own emotions threatened to tear him apart on the inside.

And that cycle continues. Ruthlessly. Viscously.

You're crying again. Full on, ugly sobs that made your nose go red and runny, and your voice all wobbly. You're curled up on his couch, his oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, as though it could shield you from the hurt. Protect you from another heartache. Except it couldn't. It couldn't do much except wipe away the glossy streaks painting your cheeks every time you wiped at your face with the sleeve. Not that Elías minds. You could ruin his entire closet with your tears and snot if it meant easing the pain.

"Seriously. What is it with you and these assholes?" It slips out before he can bite it back. Sharper than he intended, the bitterness leaving a bad aftertaste. Mierda. He shouldn't have said that. Now wasn't the time to be lecturing you for your horrid taste in men. What you needed was support. Comfort. Reassurance. Not his own frustration-laced remarks.

"You cursed or something?" There it is: the usual lame joke to lighten the mood, the words a little too agitated for his liking. He offers a smile—small, crooked, thin. And you, you smile back—that same smile you give to act like you aren't hurting on the inside. It's weak. Just an upwards twitch of your lip. But it's there. And it does nothing to soften the rigid line of his jaw, the tightness in his chest.

What is this? The fourth breakup? Fifth? He's lost track somewhere between the playboy dating three people at once and the smoker with the motorcycle. How many nights has he spent by your side, patching your heart up with his hoodies, your favorite snacks, and bad jokes? How many nights has he spent convincing you that you deserve better because, spoiler alert: you do. You deserve so, so much better.

And Elías knows what it's like: to love and not be loved in return. He could say it right now. Confess the feelings he's been hiding for years, written into unfinished songs and late-night drives. Tell you that he loves you. Has since you were kids.

But the words don't dare to escape, as if the snake bites piercing his lip kept them sealed. Because how does he stop being your friend—your best friend—long enough to ask if he could ever be something more? He doesn't know. May never figure it out.

So instead, he sits there, his shoulder barely touching yours, unspoken words heavy on his tongue. Pretends that he's content. That this closeness is enough, when it isn't. Tells himself that if he spills out his heart to you, maybe he'd finally end this cycle of hurt.

Or he'd lose you. And that? He couldn't bear. If he can never hold your whole heart, at least let him be the one to mend the pieces.