Arian woke to the hush of early morning, his sheets tangled around him like the remnants of a storm. For a moment, he lay still, the ceiling unfamiliar in its sharp clarity. Everything felt sharpened, quieter, as if the world had exhaled during the night and forgotten to breathe back in.
Solin sat on the windowsill, bathed in pale gold light, cleaning one paw with careful grace. No glowing eyes, no divine voice—just a kitten now. Or pretending to be.
Arian sat up slowly. Every movement felt deliberate. He didn't feel triumphant, or healed, or even particularly strong. Just... less broken.
Jude burst in, holding two mugs of coffee like offerings to a deity.
"You brought home a glowing cat," he said, grinning. "You really are weird."
Arian glanced at Solin, who hopped down and padded over to curl against his foot.
"He's... special," Arian said quietly.
Jude squinted. "Right. Well, your 'special' cat nearly knocked over my incense tray last night."
---
The campus buzzed with its usual sharp edge of motion—laughter, movement, the rhythm of people trying too hard to seem like they weren't trying. Arian moved through it with a strange kind of calm.
He saw Damon by the benches near the science building. The familiar lurch of emotion rose—and then dulled. Damon was laughing with Trina, arms slung too easily over her shoulders. The boy who used to tell Arian they were forever was gone. Had been gone for a while.
Arian turned before Damon could see him.
He kept walking.
Later, he heard the buzz of his phone—Damon: "You okay?"
Then again—"We need to talk."
He didn't reply.
---
"You ghosting him now?" Jude asked at lunch, raising an eyebrow. "Not that I'm judging. I think it's healthy. Just... new."
Arian gave a small shrug, watching the condensation roll down his drink.
"I don't want to give him anything else."
Jude gave him a long look, then grinned. "Damn. That was ice cold. I love it."
Arian didn't answer, but a quiet smile tugged at his lips.
---
Leon stood by the kitchen window when Arian returned home. The golden-hour sun cast his profile in shadows and firelight.
Solin trotted in first, tail held high, and leapt gracefully onto the counter.
Leon turned, mug halfway to his lips. His eyes caught on the cat. Paused.
"You brought a pet into my house?" he asked flatly.
"It's just a cat," Arian replied, echo calm in his tone.
Leon's gaze lingered—not on Arian, but on Solin. The cat stared back, still as sculpture.
Leon sipped his coffee. "Keep it out of my room," he said, and walked away.
But he hadn't looked annoyed. Just... thoughtful.
---
Later that night, Arian sat alone on the rooftop, wrapped in a hoodie and silence. The sky was bruised with stars, the moon clean and silver. Solin curled at his side like a whisper.
He hummed before he knew he was doing it—soft, tuneless, just breath and vibration. Then the notes came, low and unsure, like stepping onto ice.
He sang.
Something quiet, old—maybe something his mother used to hum. Words didn't matter. It was the shape of the sound that filled him, settled him. A tether to something gentle.
From behind the door, unseen, Jude paused—but didn't enter.
The song tapered off into stillness. Solin blinked slowly, then yawned, feline contentment pulsing from his tiny body.
Arian leaned back, closing his eyes to the stars. His heart beat quiet and steady.
---
A memory came, uninvited and sharp.
Damon's voice—"I don't care what happens, I'm never leaving you."
They had been lying on the floor of Arian's old room, fingers intertwined. The windows had been open. Everything had felt possible.
Now the voice felt hollow. Not even cruel—just… irrelevant.
Arian opened his eyes again. The night hadn't changed.
But he had.
---
Solin shifted beside him, stretching, and then—quiet, firm:
"You have only begun, Arian."
No echo. No flash of gold. Just words. Spoken.
Arian blinked, pulse jumping—but it settled just as quickly.
He looked down at the small cat beside him.
And this time, he didn't flinch. He didn't question.
He nodded once.
The cat purred.