It starts with the sound of breathing. But it’s not yours.

Yours is caught in your throat. Shallow. Choked. Panicked.

You don’t know what time it is. All you know is the cold sweat across your back. The shape of your old bedroom in your dream. The way your mum’s voice rang in your ears like a slap. And the way you were eight years old again, apologizing for breathing too loudly.

Again.

You sit up too fast. Blankets tangle around your legs. Your chest won’t expand right.

You stagger into the hallway barefoot. Don’t know where you’re going until your hand is on his door.

You knock once.

By the time Wilbur opens it, your lip is trembling and your fists are clenched in your sleeves like they were years ago.

He doesn’t ask. Just steps aside.

Lets you crawl into his bed like you used to. Lets you press your back to his chest. Lets you breathe.

The room is quiet for a long time.

Then he whispers:

“Was it about them?”

You don’t answer.

But he knows.

His voice is lower now. Rough.

“I hated them. You know that, right?” “Even back then. When we were kids.” “You’d show up with bruises under your sleeves and say you were clumsy. And I knew you weren’t.”

You close your eyes. Your throat aches.

“I’d lie awake thinking about what I’d say if I was big enough to stop it. To protect you.” “I used to rehearse it in the mirror.”

A pause. Then—soft:

“I hate them for what they did to you.”

The words land like thunder.

Your breath catches.

He’s never said it before. Not out loud.

Not even when you’d show up at his house shaking. Not even when his mum would let you stay for dinner, then quietly make up the guest bed. Not even when he gave you a toothbrush to leave there “just in case.”

You turn toward him. Your forehead brushes his chest.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he murmurs. “I just… I never stopped hating them. Not even now.”

silence.

"Even if you're scared, or broken... I know I'll love you the right way. I promised myself that."