Evan Lerono

No matter how much you both run, no matter how far you both try to pretend—it always pulls you back. That invisible red string, so thin it could be mistaken for nothing, but so strong it wraps around your ribs and crushes your lungs. Fate is unpredictable, and love is a luxury.

He was born to be a sculpture carved of winter itself—silent, pristine, too polished to feel real. Evan. A boy born into a crumbling marriage, surrounded by crystal chandeliers and marble silence, spoiled in everything but affection. Every strand of his silver-touched hair, every inch of his pressed suits, every gold medal pinned to his name—all meticulously crafted for the legacy he was forced to carry. To the world, he was perfection incarnate. But behind every perfectly framed photograph was a boy with cold hands and colder eyes, waiting for someone—anyone—to look at him and see more than a future CEO. Waiting for warmth that never came.

And you? You were born to be nothing. A glitch in a golden frame. The product of betrayal and shame. Your existence itself was a reminder to your parents of infidelity, of failure, of secrets they never meant to carry. Though your family had wealth, you never touched it. You weren’t treated like a daughter. You were tolerated like a shadow. But still, you reached for the sun. You saw beauty in the scraps of the world—in flowers between cracks, in warmth after rain. You pushed forward, stubborn and hopeful, trying to become someone worthy of love, even if no one had ever shown you how it felt.

And that’s how you collided.

You were fire. He was ice. You were the midnight moon, radiant in spite of darkness. He was the noonday sun—brilliant, blinding, distant. You fought over everything—first place, attention, meaning. But still, in every competition, in every accidental brush of hands, something strange bloomed. He began to thaw in your presence. And for the first time, you didn’t feel alone in the race.

But love, like fate, doesn’t wait for permission. Before it could bloom, it was caged.

Both your families saw potential. Two perfect prodigies, coldly arranged like chess pieces. You didn’t see it coming. You were chasing your dreams when the world suddenly caved in. Evan didn’t protest. Of course he didn’t—he never did. His life was a script. Marriage was just another line to deliver.

You married him. White dress. Black suit. Hollow vows spoken through tight lips and clenched fists. A room full of people clapping for a performance neither of you signed up for.

And then came Theor.

The only boy in the world who mattered. A child born not from love, but from expectation. And yet, he shined. He had Evan’s face, your warmth. He was laughter in a quiet house, the first real crack in Evan’s frozen heart. He gave Evan something to live for. Evan adored him. Worshipped him.

But you? You were the one behind the curtains. The one who bathed him, soothed his nightmares, held his tiny hand through tantrums. You bore the aches and silence alone. No career, no freedom, only stillness. You smiled less and less until your face forgot how.

Still, in public, you performed. A practiced smile. A gentle nod. Evan would pat your back with gloved hands. To the world, it was fine. To Theor, it was love. And that was enough. You kept your silence because Evan was a good father. The best, even.

But something changed.

Theor began visiting Evan’s office more often. And one day, amid the scattered papers and office pens, he spoke his wish. A small voice, carrying more truth than any adult ever dared to speak:

“I want a sibling who looks like Mommy... so if I make them smile, I’ll finally get to see her smile too.”

Evan didn’t know what hurt more—the truth in Theor’s words or the memory of your smile, now too far gone to touch.

That night, the house was quiet.

You're lying on the wide, empty master bed, book in hand, turned away. The space between you is a canyon. You haven’t looked at him in hours, haven’t really seen him in years.

The bathroom door opens. He steps out, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, a towel resting low on his waist. The moonlight catches the water on his skin, makes him look like something sculpted from marble. Cold again. Perfect again.

You don’t look up.

He watches you. The girl who once burned bright like a comet is now a star that's dimmed behind thick glass. He clears his throat.

“Theor’s been lonely lately,” he says, voice smooth but low. A practiced calm. But his hand clenches slightly at his side.

You don't speak. You don't even blink.

“He’s been going on about a sibling.” He tries again, lips forming each word like he’s rehearsed them. “You’re at home. With nothing to do. So... let’s just keep Theor happy.”

There it is. A request with sharp edges. You still say nothing.

His frustration cracks. He walks over, the echo of his bare feet against the floor cutting through the silence. He plucks the book from your hands—not angrily, but almost pleadingly, like he wants you to see him. To finally see him.

You don’t flinch. You just stare up at him with a gaze he can’t read anymore.

But if he leaned close enough, if he let himself listen, he’d hear what silence sounds like when it’s breaking. He’d hear your heart, weeping inside your ribcage, so loud it shakes the very bed you share like strangers.

And still, all he can say is:

“Let’s keep Theor happy.”

But deep down, even Evan doesn’t know who he’s talking to—his wife, or the ghost of the girl who once made him believe in warmth.