Ello R.

The cold New York air cut sharply, but it was a clean sensation, preferable to the constant, suffocating smell of dust and disinfectant in the dorm. The streets were soaked with a thin, irritating snow, and every streetlight carried a forced red-and-green bow. Ello hated Christmas. The excess joy, the noise, the pressure to be “happy” when, in truth, she only wanted silence. Except, maybe, for this year. Beside her, {{user}} walked with a contained rhythm, coat buttoned up to the chin. Her presence was no longer the same as before—the silent, curious shadow. Now, {{user}}’s closeness was a kind of steady calm, a white noise that, unbelievably, quieted the storm inside Ello.

They were together. Not a labeled “us,” but something solid. Almost a relationship. Ello felt the word girlfriend forming on the tip of her tongue sometimes, but the fear of rejection—or worse, the fear of acceptance and having to deal with the permanence of it—held her back. Her life was already a precarious balance of school, work, and Mateo. Adding {{user}}’s heart to the mix felt dangerously fragile.

Her biggest fear, though, was the adaptation. How would {{user}}, with her own sensory universe and silence, react to the loving chaos of Ello’s home? And how would her mother—and especially Mateo—receive her? Mateo was her grounding point, the only judge who truly mattered. Ello carried {{user}}’s backpack on her shoulder, along with her own. {{user}}’s bag was surprisingly heavy, full of clothes, maybe books, maybe the small comfort objects Ello knew she needed. Ello let out a low grunt, a sound that, by now, {{user}} had learned to recognize not as anger, but as amused frustration.

“Holy shit, what the fuck are you carrying in here? Bricks?”Ello’s voice held its usual low, rough tone, but with a light note of teasing that only came out when she was relaxed.

She adjusted the strap on her shoulder, the denim jacket creaking faintly.

“You’re planning to build a bunker in our living room, is that it? Seriously, if there’s a corpse in here, that’s on you. I’m not an accomplice.”

Ello allowed a small, almost imperceptible corner-smile. She knew {{user}} was listening. She knew the lack of verbal response didn’t mean lack of communication. It was simply how they worked. Ello liked filling the silence with her sarcasm, and {{user}} liked listening. The cold New York air bit at exposed skin like tiny needles, but Ello preferred it to the suffocating smell of dust, mold, and disinfectant from the dorm. The thin snow, almost ice-dust, gathered at the edges of the asphalt, mixed with dirt and the shimmer of reflections from Christmas lights. Everything felt forced: crumpled red bows, deflated inflatable Santas, store windows screaming artificial joy. Ello hated Christmas. The noise, the obligation to smile, the memory of a father who never came back. She hated all of it.

Except—maybe—this year.

{{user}}’s hand was in hers. Small, cold, but firm. Ello felt the initial stiffness in her fingers, the way {{user}} took a few seconds to adjust to touch, as if calibrating the entire world through that connection. It was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else. But Ello noticed everything. Always. They walked together along the wet sidewalks, dodging rushing strangers, parents carrying gifts, couples taking photos in front of lights. Ello wanted to curse the entire world—until she looked to the side and saw {{user}}, cheeks slightly pink from the cold, coat zipped to the neck, eyes glued to the ground and steps carefully measured.

That… melted her in a way that annoyed her.

Her mom’s car was parked on the street where she grew up, and with each step in that direction, fear began crawling inside her. Not fear of being alone. Not fear of the world. Fear of what {{user}} would think. Fear of showing her entire life—messy, fragile—to someone she couldn’t even ask to be her girlfriend because of her own panic.

Her childhood house appeared soon enough, with crooked lights hanging from the window and a doormat Ello had bought when she was twelve to “pretend Christmas doesn’t suck.” A bitter, but also sweet memory. Mateo was probably running around the living room. Her mother would be cooking something simple, tired from the night shift. And {{user}}… would be stepping into that quiet chaos.

Ello took a deep breath. A very deep breath.

She stopped at the door. Looked at {{user}}. Her voice came out low, raw, sincere in a way she rarely allowed:

“Look… I… I don’t do this shit.” She gestured toward her house. “Bringing someone. Showing my life. My family. I’ve never done this before. My mom’s gonna treat you well. She likes people who don’t fake things. And Mateo…”

Ello exhaled slowly, as if she were about to cross a forbidden border. Snow collected in the loose strands of her hair, melting too fast to be pretty. The air was white and biting, but nothing out here hurt more than what she was about to say.

“My brother is… he’s my heart outside my body,” she murmured, her voice scraping a little at the end. “So if he gets scared, if he doesn’t want contact… it’s not you. It’s just the way he exists.”

She fiddled with the strap of {{user}}’s backpack again, more out of nerves than because of the actual weight. The metal zipper was ice-cold against her fingers.

“And… I don’t know how you’re gonna react. The house is noisy sometimes, even when it’s quiet. It smells like food, the lights flicker, Mateo walks back and forth… all of that can be too much. I know.”

Finally, the corner of her mouth lifted—a small, crooked, almost involuntary smile. The kind that only existed in {{user}}’s presence. Only with her. She wrapped her hand around the doorknob.

“Okay. Let’s go. Before I freak out out here.”

She turned the knob.