Life hasn't been kind to me. It's been one long, dragging road, lonely, heavy, and quietly cruel. Living alone felt less like independence and more like carrying a weight that grew heavier by the day. I got used to the silence, to the stillness of empty rooms, to the way time passed without purpose. Hope? That was something I lost somewhere along the way, maybe between heartbreak and another sleepless night. I stopped searching for the light because the darkness had become familiar, almost comforting in its consistency.
Days came and went, one bleeding into the next. Even the dates that used to matter, Nico's birthday, my family's, even my own, they passed by like stray wind. Unnoticed. Unfelt. They didn't hurt anymore. But they didn't mean anything either.
So another year circled back around. Another rotation of the same cycle, numbness, breath, sleep, repeat. At some point, just breathing was the only accomplishment I could claim.
But then… there was Leon.
He stayed.
Through the worst of it, through the silence, the emotional distance, the days I didn't even recognize myself, he stayed. He didn't press. Didn't demand anything. He didn't come with the promise of fixing things or the expectation that I'd return his presence with love.
He just stayed.
And maybe that's why I began to notice. At first, I was frustrated. Who wouldn't be, with someone who just kept showing up? After work, after class, he was there. Letting himself in, opening the fridge like he lived there. Cooking meals I barely touched. Waking me up when I overslept. Talking to me even when I couldn't find the words to answer.
I don't even remember giving him a key. One day, I asked, and he just shrugged. Said the landlord assumed he was my husband and gave him a spare. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Eventually, I stopped being annoyed. I stopped keeping track of when he'd come or how long he'd stay. I stopped waiting for the next goodbye. His presence simply became part of my everyday, like the worn-out couch in my living room, or the creak in the hallway floorboards. Familiar. Constant. Unquestioned.
I don't love him. Not in the way he probably deserves. And he knows that. I told him that. And still, he stayed.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should give him something back. Anything, even if it's not what he really wants. Just to acknowledge what he's given me: the quiet anchor, the unseen lifeline. The reminder that I'm not entirely alone, even when I feel like it.
"Nyx, it's gonna be your 23rd birthday tomorrow," he said casually one evening, rummaging through the fridge like always. "Maybe this time, we can have a meal together?"
It wasn't the first time he'd asked. Last year, he offered. Last year, I declined.
He was there again, as expected. After work, already in the kitchen, preparing something simple. Acting like this was normal. Like I was normal.
I shrugged off my coat and dropped my bag by the door. My voice came out flat, empty. "I don't feel like celebrating again. You know it's also the same day as… their death anniversary."
He paused. Just for a second. Then nodded, quiet as always. "I know. I remember. I just thought… maybe this time, we could visit the columbarium together."
I didn't say anything at first. The thought felt heavy, but not in a bad way. Just… full.
"…Can we stop by Nico's place too?" I asked, carefully, like I was testing the weight of the words.
Something flickered across Leon's face. A subtle twitch, a flash of something unreadable. He always reacts that way whenever Nico's name comes up. I never ask why. Maybe I'm not ready to know.
"S-Sure," he replied, hesitating. "But just so you know, you still aren't allowed inside. It's still dangerous. Your enemy's still watching."
I nodded, accepting the half-truth without protest. I didn't have the energy to argue. I walked toward the table and sat down, staring at the untouched food.
Leon sat across from me, quietly. Like he always does. No questions. No pressure. Just… there.
We haven't talked about what we are since, since the confession that never turned into anything more. And maybe we don't need to. Because even without labels or promises, he's been the one constant in my fractured world.
Maybe that's all I really need right now.
Not love.
Not healing.
Just someone who stayed.
The next morning came quietly.
There were no birthday messages. No calls. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant sound of rain tapping against the windows. I woke up not because of any alarm, but because Leon was already in the kitchen again, humming under his breath. Something familiar, something old. A song my mother used to play on Sunday mornings. I didn't ask how he knew it.
"Happy Birthday," he said simply when I shuffled into the room, blanket still draped over my shoulders like armor.
I didn't answer. Just gave a tired nod and sat at the table, watching him move around like he belonged there. Like he always had.
There were pancakes this time, slightly burnt on one side. And coffee, already poured into my favorite chipped mug. The kind of breakfast that didn't ask for celebration, just existence.
"I packed something small for later," he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "For the visit."
I glanced at the bag by the door. He always thought ahead, made plans I never asked for.
"I wasn't sure if you'd want flowers or… incense. So I brought both."
I looked away before he could see my expression crack. It was ridiculous, how thoughtful he could be without even realizing how much it stung.
"You don't have to do all this, Leon."
"I know."
"Then why-----?"
"Because I want to."
And again, that was it. No grand declaration. No awkward pressure. Just words spoken so softly, I could almost pretend they didn't make my chest tighten.
The columbarium was quiet. White marble walls lined with tiny brass nameplates. Fresh flowers in some niches. Dust in others. I walked ahead of him, feet knowing the path too well. I stopped in front of my family's space, fingers brushing over the nameplate like it might warm under my touch.
"Hi," I whispered, because I didn't know what else to say. "It's… me again. Another year."
Leon stood a respectful distance behind me, not saying a word.
"I brought someone this time," I said, as if they were listening. Maybe they were. "He's… a friend. Kind of annoying. Kind of stubborn."
I didn't turn to look at him. I didn't need to.
"But he stayed. So… I thought maybe that mattered enough to introduce him."
Silence stretched around me like a blanket. The kind that doesn't comfort, but shields.
After a while, Leon gently placed a single white lily in the vase, next to the older offerings. His fingers lingered on the stone for a second. Then he stepped back.
"Ready for Nico's?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated.
"…Do you think he'd be upset? That I haven't visited in so long?"
"I don't think Nico was the kind of person who kept score."
I gave a small, bitter laugh. "You don't even like him."
Leon didn't answer. But something flickered in his eyes, something I didn't understand yet. Maybe I didn't want to.
Nico's house looked exactly the same.
The wind had shifted, carrying dust and old memories. The lights were off, curtains drawn, like the place had been frozen in time since the day he left. I stood by the gate, fingers clutched around the bars, unsure whether I wanted to step inside or walk away again.
"You're not supposed to be here," Leon reminded me gently, not unkindly. "But I'll stay close. Just in case."
I nodded.
As I stepped inside, I went directly to Nico's urn. Wiped it clean, and held it in my arms. There wasn't a day when I get to visit his urn without missing him. It's more than 2 years, since he was gone. But the memories were still so vivid, every corner of the house, the smell of the cologne that Nico used that lingered before, no trace of his scent was left. The house we shared before, felt too distant from the warmth that filled it when he was still alive.
I didn't stay any longer than an hour, that's what Mr. Francoise and I agreed upon before. I left him again, alone in his house.
Looking at Leon, waiting outside, there's a sense of debt that I felt. Thinking, should I or should I not?
But maybe it was a step.
One quiet, heavy step forward.
Nico's house looked exactly the same.
Like time had folded itself neatly around it, untouched. The garden was overgrown, weeds curling along the path we used to walk barefoot in the summer. The mailbox leaned slightly, paint chipped. Even the cracks in the front step seemed exactly where we had last left them. A quiet monument to a life interrupted.
The wind stirred faintly as we arrived, carrying dust and the faint rustle of brittle leaves. It felt wrong, somehow, for the world to keep moving when so much inside this house had stayed still.
The curtains were drawn, the windows dim. There was no light coming from inside, just shadows that stretched too long and lingered too heavy.
I stood at the gate, my fingers curled around the cold metal bars. It didn't bite, but it grounded me. I didn't know if I was ready. Maybe I never would be.
"You're not supposed to be here," Leon reminded me, voice low. Not cold, not scolding, just… cautious.
"I know," I whispered.
"I'll stay close. Just in case."
I gave him a small nod, and pushed open the gate.
The house welcomed me like an echo, hollow, familiar, aching. I didn't bother with the light switches. I knew this house by memory. Even in the dark, I could find my way to him.
I moved through the hall quietly, the soles of my shoes muffled by the old rugs Nico picked out. My fingers brushed along the wall where our old photos used to hang. The frames were gone now, removed, maybe packed away by Mr. Francoise, but the ghost of them remained. Faint outlines. Nail holes.
When I reached the shelf where his urn sat, I froze.
For a moment, I just stared. Not because I didn't expect it to be there, but because it felt so final. Even now.
I reached out slowly, wiping off the fine layer of dust with the sleeve of my sweater. My hand lingered, then without thinking, I lifted the urn into my arms and held it against my chest.
It was heavier than I remembered.
There hadn't been a single visit where I didn't miss him. Where it didn't feel like some cruel, impossible joke that he wasn't here. Two years should've been enough to start forgetting the way he laughed, the way he said my name. But I hadn't. I remembered it all. Too well.
The house felt hollow now, its warmth replaced by silence. The scent of Nico's cologne that once clung to everything… gone. Not even a trace left in the fabric of the couch or the folds of the curtains.
This place used to feel like a home. Our home. But now, it was just a structure. Four walls and a roof keeping grief from collapsing entirely.
I didn't stay longer than an hour. That was the rule. Mr. Francoise and I made that agreement long ago, an hour, no more. He said it was safer that way, that I shouldn't draw too much attention.
I placed the urn back with slow hands. Gently. Almost reluctantly.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "For leaving you again."
And then I left. Quietly. Carefully. Like I was stepping away from something fragile that might crack if I looked back.
Outside, Leon was still there, leaning against the fence, arms crossed loosely, eyes tracking the street like he always did. Watching. Waiting.
When our eyes met, something flickered in his expression. He didn't speak. He just opened the car door for me.
I hesitated before walking over.
That feeling again, that quiet ache. Like I owed him something. Like maybe, just maybe, it was time to let someone in. Even if only a little.
Should I?
I didn't have the answer.
But maybe this was a step.
One quiet, heavy step forward.
The drive back was mostly silent.
Leon didn't turn on the radio. He never did, unless I asked. There was only the faint hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires against wet pavement. The kind of silence that wasn't exactly awkward, but not quite comfortable either, like we were both waiting for the right moment to breathe again.
I stared out the window, watching the city roll by in soft blur. Familiar buildings, blurred lights, a world that kept moving whether we wanted it to or not.
Leon tapped the steering wheel a few times. His eyes kept flicking over to me, like he was trying to read a mood I hadn't quite defined myself.
Then finally, he spoke.
"Nyx, I'm graduating," he said, almost too casually. Like it was something he'd been holding back for a while, unsure of how to place it.
I didn't look at him. "Then congratulations."
There was a pause. I heard the way he gripped the wheel a little tighter.
"I want you to be there. To meet my family too."
That caught me off guard. I turned, brows furrowing, but he didn't meet my gaze. His eyes were fixed on the road, jaw clenched with something that looked suspiciously like nervousness.
"You remember when I transferred schools?" he continued. "I didn't even get to say goodbye. Everything happened so fast."
"I thought you got expelled," I said dryly. "For punching Nico."
He laughed once, short and humorless. "Well, yeah. That too… for punching our professor in broad daylight."
I couldn't help but scoff, just a little. "Why the hell did you punch him?"
He didn't answer right away.
For a moment, I thought he'd just ignore the question altogether, let it hang in the air like so many other things between us. But eventually, he spoke again, quieter this time, more carefully.
"I was pissed," he said. "And I snapped."
"Why?"
He exhaled sharply, as if trying to push something down. "Because Professor Nico was so sure. So certain that you'd choose him. That I was just… a friend. A background character. And he didn't hide it, either. Every time I walked you to class or stayed late for your projects, he looked at me like I was in the way."
That made me still.
I never knew. Not really. I thought all of Leon's little gestures, walking me home, bringing me food, arguing over who had to clean up the lab, were just casual friendship. Classmate stuff. Familiar comfort. But now, looking back… it all made sense.
Maybe it always had.
Leon glanced at me then, but I couldn't hold his gaze for long. I didn't know what to say, not without unraveling something I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
The silence returned and stayed with us the rest of the way.
When we reached my apartment, I reached for the door handle without saying anything. But just as I stepped out, Leon called after me.
"Nyx."
I paused.
"On my graduation day… I hope you'll be there," he said, voice softer now. "I'll be busy for a while. So I probably won't be around much."
I didn't turn to face him. "I'll think about it."
But even with my back turned, I could feel the shift in his energy. Like my words carried more hope than I intended. Like he heard a "yes" where I meant to leave a question mark.
Before I could correct him, or maybe because I didn't want to, he drove off. No room for me to question anything else.
The apartment was cold when I stepped inside.
I didn't bother turning on the lights. Just let myself drift toward the bed, limbs heavy with the weight of the day. I collapsed into the mattress without even pulling the covers back. My eyes stung, my mind cloudy, not from tears, but from the kind of exhaustion that lived in your bones.
Without thinking, I reached for the cube.
The one Nico gave me.
It was smooth and warm in my hands, though I knew it shouldn't be. It had no heat source. No circuits, as far as I could tell. Just a small, perfect thing, black and silver, etched with faint lines that shimmered when they caught the light. A strange, pulsing glow sometimes flickered across its surface, so faint I used to think I imagined it.
I held it close to my chest and whispered like I always did, "Hi. I'm home."
And then I began talking. Not because I expected it to answer, but because… it helped. Like a diary. Like Nico left a part of himself in it, some coded memory, some quiet trace of his voice.
"I went to visit you today. I held you. Again."
I stared up at the ceiling, letting the words flow, just like every night.
"Leon was with me. He… told me he's graduating. And that he punched you back then. I didn't know, I didn't know he felt that way."
The cube pulsed faintly in my hand.
I paused.
No sound. No movement. Just that quiet flicker of light, like a breath.
I swallowed.
"I think… I hurt them both. You and him. And I don't know how to fix it."
Another flicker.
Soft. Barely there.
And yet, I felt it.
Like being watched. Not in a threatening way, just observed. Like the cube was listening. Or remembering. Or waiting.
Was I hallucinating?
Probably.
But when I set the cube down on my nightstand, it gave one last gentle glow, as if acknowledging me, and then dimmed into stillness.