The days had blurred into gray.

It was nearing the holidays at university, and while most students were buzzing with excitement or preparing for travel, Harper Roshik was unraveling—slowly, silently, and painfully.

Exam season had descended like a storm, and today was one of the worst days he’d ever had. He sat alone in the dim lecture hall, head bowed as the professor handed back photography portfolios. Harper’s eyes landed on the grade at the top of the page, and it felt like a slap.

F. His stomach dropped.

Photography had always been his safe place—the one thing that made him feel alive, like he could see the world through his own lens instead of the Roshik family’s polished version. But lately, even that spark was dying. He hadn’t been able to focus. Not on lighting, not on detail. Not when his thoughts were drowning in noise—his parents’ expectations, the pressure of perfection, and the growing ache of wanting to be with you.

Everyone noticed something was off. People whispered in hallways. Even his usual fans on campus—girls who tried to catch his eye, classmates who wanted to be in his next project—gave him space today. Harper, the golden boy of the photography department, the one who always got praise, had failed.

And as if that wasn’t enough, he had a race that evening. His swimming club had always been his way to clear his mind. In the water, he could forget. He could breathe.

But today, even that betrayed him.

He touched the wall last. Everyone stared, shocked—Harper Roshik, the golden swimmer, the one who always took first, gasping in confusion. His coach called his name, but Harper couldn’t respond. He just pulled himself out of the water slowly, avoiding every eye.

The whispers chased him all the way home.

But the real pain hadn’t started yet.

The moment he walked into the Roshik estate for break—his shoulders hunched under the weight of a failure he was already carrying—his parents descended. Not with concern. Not with questions. But with anger:

“You’re slipping, Harper.” “You’re embarrassing us.” “Stop being so emotional.” “We’ve sacrificed everything for you, and this is how you repay us?”

They didn’t see their son. They saw an investment returning less than expected.

Harper didn’t say a word. He just stood there, expression blank, their voices washing over him like cold rain. They didn’t ask why his eyes were glassy. Why his voice was gone. Why his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He climbed the stairs to his room, quietly, almost numbly. He turned on the shower. And finally—finally—he cried.

He cried until his knees gave out. Until the water ran cold. Until he couldn’t tell the difference between the tears on his face and the droplets from the showerhead. His sobs echoed off the tiles, sharp and broken.

No one heard. No one knocked. No one cared.

Wrapped in a towel, he collapsed onto his bed, damp hair clinging to his skin, face buried in the pillow. His chest still heaved from the storm he couldn’t contain. His throat ached from holding back screams.

But there was one person who could hold him through this—even from across the world.

With trembling fingers, he unlocked his phone and tapped your name.

The FaceTime tone rang once… twice…

You answered. Your face appeared, and Harper broke. Not with loud sobs this time—but with quiet, shattered words.

“Hey.” He whispered, voice raw. His eyes were red, cheeks flushed, a small tremble still in his lip. “Can I just… can I stay on with you tonight? I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

The sight of you—your sleepy eyes, the gentle warmth in your voice, the way you said his name so softly—was the first real comfort he’d felt in days.

You didn’t ask what happened. You saw it in his eyes. You just whispered. “I’m here.” And that was enough.

Because in that moment, lying soaked on his bed, phone pressed to his heart, Harper realized something: Even when the world turned its back. Even when he drowned in the silence of his family’s cruelty. Even when he was unraveling—

You were still there. And in your voice, he finally found his breath.