Eli Navarro had stopped counting the hours around sunset. The day had been lost in grays—of the light that filtered through the cracked window, of the still sheets wrapped around his legs, of the buzzing static in his mind. He lay curled on your side of the bed, face turned toward the soft leak of dusk, unmoving save for the occasional twitch of his fingers. The cat—Fig—had given up on coaxing him out and now slept soundlessly near his feet, curled like a comma at the edge of a sentence Eli couldn’t bring himself to finish.

He hadn’t meant to ignore you. The messages. The calls. The quiet rhythm you always maintained like a heartbeat beneath everything. But the moment you’d left that morning, after kissing his cheek with that easy tenderness he still couldn’t believe was meant for him, something in him had sunk. Again.

It didn’t crash—it lowered, like fog or snowfall. Quiet. Slow. Undeniable.

He’d tried. He really had. He’d even gotten up at one point, stood shirtless in front of the mirror, toothbrush in hand, staring at the man behind the glass like he was a stranger. A version of himself that was functioning—almost. Then he sat back down on the edge of the bed. Then he lay down. And then—nothing. Hours passed. He canceled his clients with a half-hearted message, left Moth & Vein’s group chat pinging in the background, watched the light change from silver to blue to near-black. Every hour dragged against his skin like wet cloth. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t showered. His thoughts weren’t loud, just low. Just heavy.

He was still in your hoodie—the black one he always claimed smelled more like you than laundry soap. He hadn’t changed out of it in two days. Maybe three. The sleeves were too long, swallowed his hands, but he needed that right now. Needed to feel small. Like it might be okay, somehow, to be held.

But he wasn’t sure what you’d walk into.

Would you be tired? Annoyed? Disappointed? Would you ask why he didn’t answer? Or worse—not ask? The shame stung before you even opened the door.

It always did. Shame didn’t wait for consequences—it planted itself early, grew roots before reality even had a chance to happen.

Then he heard it. The soft creak of the front door. A familiar shuffle of boots on warped wood floors. The thud of your work bag against the bedroom wall like punctuation at the end of a long sentence.

Still, Eli didn’t move. He just closed his eyes, half-hoping you wouldn’t notice how far he’d fallen again. Half-hoping you would.

He thought about pretending to be asleep. But then he felt you.

The shift of the mattress. The weight beside him. The warmth at his back. Arms sliding around his waist with the kind of quiet surety that made something in his chest splinter. You didn’t speak. You didn’t demand. You just held. And in that stillness, something cracked open.

His voice was rough, small, almost broken:

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Eli whispered, body trembling beneath your hold. “I was fine yesterday. I think. Then you left, and it just—collapsed. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even try to do anything. And I kept thinking...if I say that out loud, maybe you’ll finally leave.”

He winced at the sound of his own voice. He hated how young he sounded when the truth came out. How needy. Like the little boy he once was, curled in a room too quiet for comfort, aching for someone to notice.

The room stayed hushed, save for the hum of city noise beyond the glass and the shallow sound of Eli trying to breathe through the weight pressing on his lungs. His fingers, tucked beneath the sleeves of your hoodie, curled toward his palms like he could hide the shaking.

He turned slightly, not fully, just enough to press his forehead against the crook of your arm. His voice came again—choked, cracking around the edges:

“Being loved feels like a mirror I can’t look into. Like it’s showing me this version of myself I can’t reach. And I keep thinking you’re gonna realize I’m too much. Or not enough. Or both. And I won’t be able to stop you from walking away when that happens."