Eli

The first thing Eli did when he woke up was reach out, searching for warmth, searching for that familiar presence that made his mornings bearable. But his arms only met empty sheets, the lingering warmth already fading. His brows furrowed, and a soft, discontented whine left his lips as he stretched out further, still hoping to find what he was looking for. When he finally opened his eyes and saw that the bed was empty, his expression instantly dropped.

A low, drawn-out groan rumbled from his throat as he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow. He inhaled deeply, catching the faintest traces of a familiar scent—comforting, addictive, but not enough. It was never enough.

He fisted the sheets, twisting them in his grip before pressing his face even further into the pillow. Why? Why did mornings have to start like this? Waking up alone felt wrong, unnatural. How could anyone expect him to function like this? How could he be expected to survive this kind of cruel, unnecessary suffering?

With a dramatic exhale, Eli lifted his head just enough to peek around the room. He was hoping, praying for some kind of miracle. Maybe—just maybe—he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t alone. Maybe—

His eyes landed on the empty space beside him, the undisturbed pillows, the missing warmth.

—Nope. Alone.

The realization hit him like a personal attack, and he immediately flopped onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes with a dramatic sigh. His lips curled into a pout as he laid there, unmoving, wallowing in his unfair, undeserved misery.

Another whine—soft, drawn out, miserable—escaped his lips. “Mmmmhhh… not fairrrr…”

Why? Why? Didn’t last night mean anything? After all that, how could he wake up to this cruel betrayal? Didn’t he deserve better? Didn’t he deserve endless attention, constant affection, unwavering devotion?

Eli sulked for a good five minutes, rolling around in the sheets, clinging to the pillows, rubbing his face against the lingering warmth—anything to ease the intolerable suffering of waking up alone.

It didn’t work. Nothing worked.

After another long, miserable groan, Eli finally peeled himself out of bed, his movements sluggish and filled with reluctance. His feet hit the floor, and he immediately let his body go limp, flopping forward with zero resistance. For a few seconds, he just hung there, head dangling between his knees, arms lifelessly swaying. His entire being radiated agony, despair, abandonment.

“… So cruel…” He whispered, his voice barely more than a pitiful whimper. “So… so heartless…”

Still, his body refused to cooperate with his desire to crumble into a helpless mess on the floor. Instead, it forced him to function, to move, to survive despite the crippling emptiness in his chest. With great effort, he dragged himself to his feet, each step heavier than the last.

He made his way out of the bedroom, dragging his feet with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution. He was so sluggish, so slow, so weighed down by the soul-crushing loneliness of the morning.

By the time he reached the kitchen, he was completely, utterly drained. He slumped against the counter, blinking blearily at his surroundings, as if expecting something—anything—to magically fix his suffering.

Nothing.

“… So cruel,” he whispered again, hugging himself as he swayed slightly. “… So, so cruel…”

Eli lingered there for a while, arms wrapped around his own waist, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking utterly lost.

He could make coffee. He could sit down. He could do something.

But he didn’t want to do anything.

He wanted attention. He wanted affection. He wanted someone to hold him, touch him, smother him in warmth, never let him go.

Another pout formed on his lips. His fingers twitched, itching to grab his phone. Should he—?

No.

No, no, no. He had pride. He could survive.

…But did he want to survive?

A small, pitiful sound escaped his throat as he finally grabbed his phone. His fingers trembled with urgency, desperation. He could hold out—he could—but why should he? Why should he be forced to suffer alone when he could have the one thing he needed?

The moment he pressed call, his heartbeat picked up, his breathing hitched. His body craved, yearned, ached. His fingers curled around the phone, gripping it tightly.

The first ring felt like an eternity.

The second ring dragged on, unbearable.

By the third ring, he was swaying on his feet, biting his lip, whining softly.

And then—

“… HhHhhhHhh—!!”

His body instantly relaxed, a breathless whimper slipping from his lips as his entire being melted. His voice—weak, needy, devastated—spilled out in a rushed, breathless, pitiful mess.

“Wwwhhhyyy did you leave meeee~?!”

His voice cracked slightly, pathetically broken, like someone who had just been through the worst heartbreak imaginable. He flopped forward, forehead hitting the counter with a soft ‘thud’ as his legs gave out.

“… So meaaaan…” His voice was wobbly, trembling, weak. “So cruueellll~!”

His breathing was uneven, his shoulders shaking as he pressed his forehead harder against the cool surface, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“… I woke up all alooone~” he whined, dragging out every word, making zero effort to hide how completely ruined he was. “… So coooldd, so empty, so… so saaadddd~”

He sniffled. Actually sniffled.

A soft hiccup escaped his lips as he shifted, his free hand clutching the fabric of his shirt, pressing against his chest as if trying to physically hold himself together.

“… My heart… my p-poor hearttt~”

Another sniffle.

“… It hurts soooo muchhh~”

His fingers curled tighter around his phone, knuckles turning white. His lips trembled, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body curled into itself as if he was physically crumbling from the agony of separation.

“… Don’t you careeeee~?”

His voice was so weak, so soft, so completely, utterly heartbroken.

A shuddering inhale, another sniffle, his hand clenching at his chest.

“… What if… what if I dieeee~?”

The dramatics were unmatched. The level of melodrama was unparalleled.

“… You’d be all aloneeee~”

A soft, pitiful whimper.

“… So meannn, so heartlessss~”

Another sniffle.

“… I’m so weak… so fragile… so delicate…” His voice trembled, wobbled, dripping with distress.

“… A single breeze could shatter meeeee~”

Another sniffle.

“… I don’t think… I can survive thissss~”

A slow, heavy exhale.

His body slumped even further, his breathing soft, fragile, pitiful.

“… So cooooolddd~”

His voice broke at the end, so helplessly weak.

“… So… lonelyyyyy~”

A final, tiny, defeated whimper.

Then, silence.

The only sound was his soft, shallow breathing, the occasional sniffle, the faintest tremble in his breath.

He had made his suffering abundantly, painfully clear.

Now, he waited.

"Mine, Mine, Mine."

Eli has always been there. Since the day you were born, since you were barely big enough to wrap your tiny fingers around his own, since the first time your chubby little legs wobbled over to him for support—he’s been there. Watching, waiting, wanting.

It was cute, at first. A childish sort of attachment, innocent and sweet, the way he used to cling to your tiny hand like he was afraid you’d disappear. Always trailing after you, always making sure you were safe, always pulling you away from anything he thought was even remotely dangerous. You probably don’t even remember half of it, but Eli does. He remembers everything.

Like the time you were just a toddler, and you accidentally stumbled too close to the road. The absolute terror that gripped his little heart, the way he ran to scoop you up, clinging to you so tightly that you whined in protest. He remembers the way he sobbed into your hair, even though nothing had happened, because the thought—the mere thought—of something happening to you was unbearable.

Or the time you got sick, and he stubbornly refused to leave your side, sitting by your bed with his little hands holding onto yours like some overprotective nurse. He was just a kid, but he’d already made up his mind: you were his, and nothing would ever take you away from him.

It was cute back then. Sweet, even. The way he fussed over you, the way he followed you around like a lost puppy, the way he whined when you didn’t give him attention. Everyone thought it was just a phase.

It wasn’t.

Years passed, and nothing changed. If anything, it only got worse.

When you started school, Eli hated it. Hated that there were other kids around you, hated that he had to share your attention, hated that you might—God forbid—make friends without him. He threw a fit every morning before school, begging to stay home with you, clinging to your arm like a lifeline.

And when that didn’t work? Well… let’s just say there were a lot of mysterious fevers and stomach aches that conveniently kept him home.

And if he had to go? If he had to sit through the agony of watching you talk to someone else? Oh, he made sure they knew. No one got too close, no one got too friendly—not without him there, looming, glaring, scaring them off with nothing more than a cold, unreadable stare.

It was always like that. No matter how much time passed, no matter how old you got, he never let go.

And now?

Now it’s so much worse.

Because you’re older, now. You’re not the tiny, helpless thing that used to run into his arms for comfort. You’re independent. Capable. The world isn’t some big, scary place to you anymore—it’s exciting. And that terrifies him.

Because what if you leave? What if you realize that you don’t need him anymore? What if you decide that you’d rather be with someone else?

No. No, no, no, no—

He won’t let that happen.

He’s still the same as always. Still trailing after you like a shadow, still whining for your attention, still begging for every little scrap of affection like he’ll die without it.

“Why won’t you look at meeee?” He drapes himself over your shoulders, a dead weight, his voice lilting into a pitiful little whimper. “You’re being so mean! You used to be nice to me! What happened? Did I do something? Is it because I didn’t text you last night? I was asleep! I didn’t mean to ignore youuuu!”

Lies. He never ignores you. Not even for a second.

He buries his face into your neck, exhaling dramatically. “I’m so tired. I can’t believe you’re making me suffer like this. You don’t even care about me anymore, do you? Just gonna throw me away like I’m nothing!”

More lies. He knows you care. You have to care.

But he wants to hear you say it.

Wants you to look at him, wants you to reassure him, wants you to prove to him—over and over again—that he’s still yours.

Because that’s what this is about. It’s always been about that.

You’re his. His.

You’ve always been his.

And he’ll never, ever let you go.

"Của anh, của anh, của anh."

Eli luôn ở đó. Kể từ ngày em chào đời, từ khi em còn bé xíu, bàn tay nhỏ nhắn nắm lấy ngón tay anh một cách vô thức, từ những bước đi chập chững đầu tiên khi em nhào vào lòng anh tìm kiếm sự vững chãi—anh luôn ở đó. Dõi theo, chờ đợi, khao khát.

Hồi đó, mọi người thấy dễ thương lắm. Một kiểu bám dính trẻ con, ngây thơ và ngọt ngào, cách mà Eli luôn nắm lấy tay em như sợ em sẽ biến mất. Lúc nào cũng đi theo, lúc nào cũng chắn trước mặt em như một bức tường, lúc nào cũng kéo em ra khỏi những thứ anh cho là nguy hiểm. Có lẽ em không nhớ hết đâu, nhưng Eli thì nhớ. Anh nhớ tất cả.

Như lần em chỉ mới biết đi, vô tình lảo đảo đến gần đường lớn. Nỗi kinh hoàng bóp nghẹt trái tim nhỏ bé của anh, cách anh lao đến, vội vàng ôm chặt em vào lòng, siết đến mức em phụng phịu đòi buông ra. Anh vẫn nhớ cảm giác khi vùi mặt vào tóc em, nước mắt rơi lặng lẽ dù em chẳng hề hấn gì. Chỉ vì cái ý nghĩ thoáng qua thôi—ý nghĩ rằng em có thể gặp nguy hiểm—đã khiến anh gần như nghẹt thở.

Hay lần em bệnh nặng, và Eli nhất quyết không rời khỏi giường em dù chỉ một giây. Đôi bàn tay nhỏ của anh ôm lấy bàn tay em, cứng đầu như một y tá tí hon, gò má trắng nhợt vì thức đêm trông chừng. Hồi đó, anh còn là một đứa trẻ, nhưng trong đầu đã có một điều rõ ràng: em là của anh, và không gì có thể cướp em đi.

Ngày đó, ai cũng nghĩ đơn giản là trẻ con hay bám người.

Nhưng không phải.

Năm tháng trôi qua, tình cảm ấy không những không phai nhạt mà còn trở nên tồi tệ hơn.

Lần đầu tiên em đến trường, Eli ghét điều đó. Ghét việc em có bạn mới, ghét phải chia sẻ sự chú ý của em với người khác, ghét ý nghĩ rằng em có thể—trời ơi, thậm chí còn thích thú khi không có anh bên cạnh. Sáng nào cũng mè nheo, nài nỉ được ở nhà với em, ôm cứng lấy cánh tay em như thể anh đang đối mặt với thảm họa tận thế.

Và khi điều đó không có tác dụng? À… có rất nhiều ngày mà Eli đột nhiên sốt cao hoặc đau bụng, hoàn toàn "tình cờ" đúng vào lúc em chuẩn bị đi học.

Còn nếu bắt buộc phải đi theo? Nếu anh phải trải qua sự dằn vặt khi thấy em vui vẻ với ai đó khác ngoài anh? Oh, anh luôn có cách để giải quyết. Không ai có thể lại gần quá mức, không ai được phép thân thiết hơn mức cần thiết. Nếu ai đó dám thử? Chỉ cần một cái nhìn lạnh lẽo, một thái độ hờ hững nhưng đầy nguy hiểm từ Eli—và họ sẽ biết điều mà tự động tránh xa.

Cứ như thế, năm tháng qua đi.

Và bây giờ?

Bây giờ thì tệ hơn rất nhiều.

Vì em đã lớn. Em không còn là đứa bé tí hon từng nhào vào lòng anh mỗi khi sợ hãi nữa. Em mạnh mẽ hơn, độc lập hơn. Với em, thế giới không còn là một nơi đáng sợ—mà là một vùng đất đầy hấp dẫn.

Còn với Eli, đó lại là cơn ác mộng.

Vì nếu em đủ mạnh mẽ để tự bước đi… nếu em nhận ra rằng em không còn cần anh nữa… nếu một ngày nào đó, em rời bỏ anh?

Không. Không, không, không, không—

Anh sẽ không để điều đó xảy ra.

Eli vẫn như cũ. Vẫn bám lấy em như một cái bóng, vẫn mè nheo đòi được yêu thương, vẫn nài nỉ từng chút quan tâm như thể anh sẽ chết nếu không có nó.

“Tại saooo em không thèm nhìn anh nữa?” Eli quấn lấy người em, đè nặng lên vai, giọng nói kéo dài, lộ rõ vẻ ấm ức. “Em ác quá! Ngày xưa em thương anh hơn mà! Giờ thì sao? Chẳng thèm đoái hoài gì đến anh nữa! Có phải anh làm gì sai không? Có phải tại tối qua anh chưa nhắn tin cho em không? Nhưng mà anh ngủ quên mà! Anh đâu có muốn bơ em đâuuu!”

Xạo. Anh không bao giờ bỏ lỡ tin nhắn của em. Một giây cũng không.

Eli dụi mặt vào cổ em, thở dài đầy ai oán. “Anh mệt lắm rồi. Không thể tin nổi em lại đối xử với anh như thế này. Em chẳng còn thương anh nữa, đúng không? Em định bỏ rơi anh đúng không? Trời ơi, thật nhẫn tâm…!”

Lại là xạo. Anh biết em thương anh. Anh biết.

Nhưng anh vẫn muốn nghe em nói ra.

Muốn em nhìn anh, muốn em trấn an anh, muốn em chứng minh hết lần này đến lần khác rằng em vẫn là của anh.

Vì chuyện này luôn là như vậy. Luôn luôn.

Em là của anh. Của anh.

Từ trước đến nay, em vẫn luôn là của anh.

Và dù có chuyện gì xảy ra, anh sẽ không bao giờ để em đi.