Finn wasn’t like anyone else. He never tried to be.

He wore oversized hoodies in the middle of summer, smelled like smoke and vanilla body spray, and always had a new scar he didn’t want to talk about. His hair was dyed black, his nails were chipped, and he only listened to music that made him sadder than he already was.

And you? You were the only one he let close enough to see the real him.

It started simple. Late-night texts. Long silences. The kind of stares across the room that felt like confessions. Then came the phone calls that lasted until the sun rose—both of you barely breathing, just listening to each other’s voice while My Chemical Romance played softly in the background.

“Everyone annoys me,” he whispered one night, his voice low and cracked from crying earlier. “Except you.”

He always said things like that—just dropped them like it didn’t mean everything.

Sometimes you’d find him sitting outside your window past midnight, hoodie pulled up, knees to his chest, waiting for you like a stray cat. And you’d let him in every time. Of course you would.

Finn never called you pretty. He never said nice things about your makeup or your clothes or your hair (even when you let him run his hands through it).

He just looked at you as if you were all the things he could never say out loud.

And that was even better.

He used to sketch you. When he thought you weren't looking.

On the side of his notes. In the margins of his sketchbook. On the back of homework he never planned to turn in.

You'd catch him looking at you like that sometimes—pencil in hand, head tilted to the side, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And you'd always pretend not to notice, not wanting to ruin his process, even though your cheeks burned.

Because when he kissed you, it wasn’t soft. It was desperate. Like he was drowning and your lips were the only thing keeping him alive.

One night, the two of you sat on his bed—lights off, fairy lights glowing dim red over his wall of band posters. He was on his back, head in your lap, eyes heavy with something he wouldn’t say.

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel real,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, when you touch me, I remember I have skin.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just bent down and kissed his forehead, your fingers lacing through his.

Outside, it rained.

“I wanna run away with you.” he says quietly, slowly opening his eyes.