It was raining again.
The city always felt heavier in the rain — like even the sky was too tired to hold everything in.
I stared out my window that morning, holding a mug I didn't drink from. I hadn't seen Elián in three days. He said he was swamped. He always said that lately.
Sofia's name had stopped flashing on his phone.
Because maybe he had gotten smarter.
Or maybe he had gotten closer.
I didn't ask.
I had stopped asking things I didn't want answers to.
It started with a cramp that wouldn't go away.
I thought it was just stress — a deadline, a skipped meal, maybe the cold air from the office AC again. But by the time I got home, I could barely stand straight.
I curled up in bed with a hot water bottle and told myself it was nothing. That this wasn't what I thought it was.
I didn't cry when it started.
I didn't scream or panic.
I just watched it happen. Quietly.
Like my body had decided before my heart could catch up.
I had no one to tell.
And no one I wanted to tell.
Because no one knew.
Because it wasn't supposed to matter.
Because there was no label.
No promise.
No future.
And he didn't know.
He never would.
I didn't go to work for two days. I sent a vague text to my team lead and said I had the flu. That was the safest lie — invisible, believable.
Jace messaged.
Jace:
You, okay? Need anything? I can drop by.
Me:
Thanks. Just resting. I'll be fine.
He didn't push, just replied with a thumbs-up and a "Get well soon." But I knew he meant it. He always meant well.
Elian didn't message at all.
Not on the first day. Not the second.
It didn't even hurt this time — the silence. Maybe I was numb. Or maybe I'd finally accepted that there were parts of him I would never reach. And parts of me he never asked to see.
When I returned to the office, everything looked the same. No one noticed the small, hollow ache I carried.
I walked past desks, and gave the usual tired smile. Pretended I was fine.
Elian saw me in the hallway.
He raised his brow slightly, then gave a soft nod. That was it.
A quiet, unreadable check-in.
I nodded back.
Nothing more.
That night, Jace stopped by my desk.
"You look pale," he said softly. "Sure you're, okay?"
I nodded. "Just getting used to work again."
He handed me a snack — a small plastic bag of roasted peanuts. "Eat. Even strong people need something."
I smiled, genuinely this time. "Thanks, Jace."
From the other side of the floor, I saw Elian glance in our direction. Just a glance. But it lingered.
He didn't come over.
He didn't ask.
He didn't know.
That Friday, the three of us ended up staying late — Jace, Elian, and me. Deadlines. Client calls. That usual chaos.
Jace offered to walk me to the lobby. Elian said nothing.
In the elevator, Jace looked at me and asked, "Did something happen between you and him?"
I froze.
He held up his hands. "Sorry. I just… I see the way he looks at you. But lately, it's like—" He shook his head. "Never mind. You don't have to answer."
"I don't know what we are," I said before I could stop myself. "Or what we were."
He was quiet for a beat.
"You deserve to be loved in the open," he said. "Not in pieces."
The elevator dinged. The doors opened.
Outside, Elian was already in the parking lot, leaning against his car, eyes on his phone. He looked up, and saw us walking side by side.
I saw it — the flicker in his face.
Jealousy.
Possession.
But never words.
That night, I cried in the shower.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just slow tears sliding down with the water.
I pressed my palm against my lower stomach — the place where something had quietly existed.
And now… didn't.
There was no funeral.
No name.
No one to tell.
I wiped my face, got out, and wrapped myself in a towel.
My phone buzzed. It was him.
Elian:
Are you okay?
Just three words.
I stared at the screen.
Then turned it face down.
I couldn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
The next morning, I made coffee. Sat by the window. Let the sun fall on my legs like it could fix something.
And for the first time in a while, I whispered something aloud — just to myself.
"I think I'm tired of being brave