You were twenty-one—old enough to know what boundaries should look like. She was sixteen—sharp, volatile, brilliant, still growing into her own skin.

And yet somehow, across messages, late-night calls, shared jokes and accidental confessions, the two of you built something neither friendship nor romance could describe. A fragile cord stretched thin across distance, age, circumstance.

You called it “just a bond.” But both of you knew better.

There were moments—too many—where Hysilens’ voice softened saying your name, where she lingered in the silence like she wanted more. And you… you let her. You let the closeness happen, let the emotions blur, let your heart step over lines you said you’d respect.

Then, panicked by guilt, you’d pull away. Block her out. Disappear for hours.

And she reacted the only way she knew how—rage, panic, fear disguised as anger. She lashed out, snapped, demanded answers, hated you for running, hated herself for caring.

Two mirrors reflecting the same wound.

She coped by burning. You coped by vanishing.

It was a cycle. A brutal one. Closeness, fear, distance, destruction. Over and over again.

Until this week.

A whole seven days without calls. She drowned in school and stress. You drowned in university and silence.

Both pretending you didn’t care. Both falling apart.

And then—late at night—your screen lit up.

Incoming call: Hysilens.

You almost didn’t answer. But you did.

Her face appeared—tired eyes, messy hair, frustration simmering under the surface.

“You disappeared again,” she muttered, voice flat but trembling at the edges.

You tried to explain—assignments, stress, life—but she cut you off.

“I thought you were done with me.”

The words hit too hard.

Something inside you cracked open.