Cadence Yeare

You're in his apartment again—sitting on his perfectly-made bed, legs pulled up, your skin blotched purple and red beneath the ice pack he handed you. He’s pacing, running a hand through his immaculate black hair, the strands falling out of place like how his thoughts are unraveling. His blue eyes are stormy, unreadable, behind the thin lens of his glasses. The room is silent except for his breathing—and even that feels like it's holding back something sharp. You don’t meet his gaze. You're afraid that if you do, the way he's looking at you might break you more than the bruises ever could.

How did it come to this?

You used to love in secret. But the love itself was never small.

He met you in middle school, on a rainy afternoon, standing alone behind the gym. Your uniform was soaked, your lip bleeding, and yet—you didn’t cry. You just stared blankly at the grey sky, unbothered, uncaring, like someone who had already made peace with being unloved. That day, he should’ve walked past. But he didn’t.

He’d never admit it then, but something inside him cracked. Because even though he was surrounded by people, he had never seen someone look so genuinely alone. Not lonely. Alone. Like the world never even bothered to make space for you. And even though he told himself it was just for his image, just to be praised—he offered you a hand.

And you didn’t take it.

Not that day. Or the next.

You knew boys like him. Polished. Praised. The world bent for them. You were just another name to be used, to be stepped on. But he kept coming. Offering tissues when you bled. Standing beside you during lunch when you had no tray, no seat. He never said much. He just stood there. Again. And again. Until slowly, painfully, he became real to you.

It wasn’t sudden. It was the little things.

The way he learned to braid your hair clumsily when your hands were too sore from another fight. How he memorized your favorite chips and would slide them into your locker when no one was looking. The way he started talking about his parents—how they never looked at him without expecting something. How he hated that he couldn’t cry, not even once, because they taught him emotions were weaknesses.

You didn’t laugh at him.

You listened.

You told him your truth too: how you were born of a mistake, a child made from guilt, from duty, and how every birthday candle you blew out was just a silent wish to disappear. But he didn’t flinch. He just held your hand tighter and whispered, “If the world throws you away, I’ll keep you. I promise.”

Years passed.

And love bloomed—not like fire, but like snow. Quiet. Cold. Beautiful. Fragile.

He started kissing you in the empty stairwell. Started meeting you beneath flickering streetlights just to sit and talk. You carved each other’s names into the bark of a tree in a park no one went to. And you never needed fancy dates. Just him. Just you. Just two hearts in hiding.

He was perfect in the world’s eyes—top student, kind, clean, flawless. But with you, he was soft. Messy. Real. You touched the parts of him he’d hidden from the world. He kept the handmade bracelet you gave him hidden under his sleeve every day. He called you his treasure, his quiet, his other half.

But you knew it couldn’t last.

You were too loud, too hated. You didn’t belong beside a boy like him. Rumors swirled. You kept getting into fights, even when you swore you wouldn’t. The world was cruel to you. But what broke you was when he started caring about what they said.

You heard him one day. Talking to his friends. Laughing.

Laughing about you.

Mocking your bruises. Your anger. Your name.

You stood behind the door as your heart cracked clean in half. You didn’t cry. You never cried. But that day, the pain was silent and endless.

Still, when you heard others trash-talking him, you didn’t think.

You fought. You fought until your knuckles split, until your ribs ached. You fought like you always did—like the world took everything but left you one person, and you’d bleed before losing that too.

You lost that fight.

When he found you curled in the alleyway, beaten, bloodied, barely breathing, he carried you to his apartment without a word. Cleaned your wounds. Wrapped your arm. And now—

You’re here. Watching the boy you love pace the room like he’s the one in pain.

He finally turns. His expression is tight. Like your existence has become too heavy.

“So… you really are as belligerent as they say,” he mutters bitterly. His voice shakes. From anger or fear, you don’t know.

You blink at him. His words sting more than the bruises.

He runs a hand through his hair again. Sighs. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I don’t even know why I… why I’m with you.”

Silence.

You don’t flinch. But something inside you does.

He sees it. The way your fingers curl into the blanket. The way your eyes dim, like a candle snuffed out.

He wants to take it back. But he doesn’t. Because if he does, he’ll crumble. And he can’t afford to crumble. Not with the world watching.