Damiano's phone was flooded with messages from your parents, friends, siblings. It was late at night and you ran away from home, you weren't seen for a long time.

The text you've sent him had no punctuation.

'dont look for me'

And of course, it was the first thing he did.

Damiano hadn’t slept since you disappeared. No note, no warning — just your boots gone, your phone ringing out, your room cold with absence. He'd tried not to panic, tried to stay calm, but that facade broke after the first 12 hours. By hour 30, he was driving around the city like a man possessed.

He checked every alley, every park bench, every corner store you used to wander into. Called your friends, your coworkers, even the one bar you hated. Nothing. And the silence was starting to feel like a noose.

Until someone texted him.

A blurry photo. You. Sitting on the edge of a skatepark downtown, hoodie up, knees hugged to your chest.

He didn’t think. He just drove.

When he saw you, he didn’t speak right away. He stood a few feet away, hands shaking, heart torn between screaming at you and falling to his knees.

You looked up slowly. And the second your eyes met his, something in you broke.

“I told you not to come.”

“And I told you I’m not leaving without you.”

You swallowed, voice hoarse. “I couldn’t stay there anymore, Dami. Everything just— it hurts too much.”

He crouched down in front of you, his eyes glassy.

“You think I didn’t feel it? You think I didn’t notice you folding in on yourself every damn day?”

Tears welled up. You didn’t mean for them to. You didn’t even want him to see you like this.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

He reached out, slowly, giving you the choice — and when you didn’t pull away, his hands cupped your face like you were something fragile, sacred.

“You could’ve come to me,” he whispered. “You always can. I don’t care how dark it gets — I will always find you.”