The rain had been falling for hours. Not loud enough to drown the silence, but just enough to match the rhythm of your thoughts—slow, steady, suffocating.

You sat on the floor of your room, knees pulled up, phone in your hand. Unsent messages to Rafe littered your screen like landmines: “Can we talk?” … “I miss you.” … “I’m not okay.”

But you never hit send.

Rafe had been gone for three days. No calls. No replies. Just… gone. And the worst part? You understood why.

He had his own demons—demons that didn’t like company, didn’t like being seen. Just like yours.

You met him last year, both of you hiding behind broken smiles and “I’m fine”s. You bonded over late-night drives and conversations too heavy for daylight. He was magnetic in that way—charming, chaotic, but real. You were the calm to his storm, or maybe just another storm trying to pass for calm.

The night he left, he looked at you like he was already gone.

“I can’t keep dragging you into this,” he muttered, jaw clenched, voice low.

“You’re not dragging me. I’m choosing to stay,” you said. You meant it.

But he shook his head. “You say that now. Until I ruin you too.”

Now, your reflection in the dark screen looked more like a ghost than a person. Eyes hollow, chest heavy, heart aching in quiet, unfamiliar ways.

You wanted to scream at him. Tell him that pain shared is pain halved. That you were tired of pretending you were okay when you weren’t. That you loved him, broken pieces and all.

But what good were words if he wasn’t there to hear them?

Suddenly, your phone buzzed.

Rafe.

One message: "I’m not okay either. But I miss you."

Your fingers trembled. The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, falling as quietly as the rain outside.

You typed: "You don’t have to go through it alone. I’m still here."

And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy.