To be honest, I didn't fully trust Jacob that time. Maybe I didn't even trust myself. The night I agreed to his words, I wasn't sure if it was because of him—or because of the ghost of Mark still clinging to me. Was it pride? Was it spite? Or was it the simple comfort of knowing someone chose to stand beside me when others turned away?
I questioned myself again and again. Was I only using Jacob to prove something? The answer never came clear. But one thing I knew—clearer than anything—I never regretted saying yes that night.
Because from that moment, things began to shift.
He wasn't just the boy who strummed his guitar beside me, or the one who shielded me from whispers in the hallway. He became someone whose presence calmed me, whose laughter made me forget the ache in my chest. Someone who made me wonder—just maybe—if there was something beyond the mess of Mark, beyond the gossip, beyond the girl everyone called delusional.
He was someone I could depend on.
We were young back then, and I thought setting boundaries would be difficult, but with Jacob, it was never a problem. He never pushed, never made me feel trapped. Somehow, he just knew when to step closer and when to give me space.
Like the night I fell asleep over my notes. When I woke up, the lamp was dimmed, my blanket pulled up to my shoulders, and a steaming cup of coffee sat by my elbow. I looked around, and there he was—head resting against the couch, guitar across his lap, quietly humming. He didn't even notice I was awake. That small, unspoken kindness stayed with me longer than any confession could.
There were other little moments, too—moments that stitched themselves into me before I even realized it.
The way he always walked on the outer side of the sidewalk, like some instinctive shield.
How he'd sneak packets of sugar into my bag because he knew I liked my coffee sweeter than I admitted.
The time he waited outside my class for an hour, just so I wouldn't have to walk home alone in the dark.
Or how he'd glance at me during conversations, not with impatience, but with the quiet patience of someone who truly wanted to understand.
I came from a middle-class family—not rich, but enough to get by with a little extra. Jacob, on the other hand, always gave me the impression of coming from an old, well-off family. He never said it directly, but there was a certain grace about him, the kind that doesn't come from money alone, but from the way he carried himself. Sometimes, I'd overhear him arguing with someone on the phone, his voice low but tense.
"Who was it?" I asked quietly one evening, as he hung up, his jaw tight.
He leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, then looked at me with that easy smile of his."Just my mother meddling again. Don't take it to heart."
He never talked much about his family, but once in a while, he'd slip into stories of his childhood—climbing trees, getting scolded for sneaking sweets, summers spent near the sea. I listened, treasuring those little glimpses into a world he rarely let others see.
But what struck me most about Jacob wasn't his background. It was the way he showed care in the simplest things.
Like waiting outside the library in the rain, umbrella in hand, just because he knew I'd forgotten mine. Or the way he'd buy two packs of my favorite crackers whenever he went out, sliding one across the table without a word. Or the way he'd remember the smallest details—like how I hated the sound of ticking clocks, or how I always saved the chocolate pieces in trail mix for last.
None of it was grand. None of it was loud. But it was enough to plant something steady inside me, something I hadn't felt in a long time: the quiet belief that maybe—just maybe—I wasn't alone anymore.
Jacob was a great cook—something I was never blessed with. Before knowing him, I lived on canteen meals and café snacks, but with him, it was different. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—he always made sure I ate, even if it was just something simple. Fried eggs on rushed mornings, steaming bowls of noodles after long lectures, or a packed lunch waiting for me when I had back-to-back classes.
He became my alarm clock, the voice that pulled me out of bed when I wanted to sleep in. He'd remind me of my class materials, carry the extra things I needed for reports, even help me set up for presentations. Without asking, without expecting, he wove himself into my daily rhythm until it felt like he had always been there.
With Jacob, life became lighter, steadier. The days were no longer something I endured—they were something I looked forward to.
But even then, there were moments—fleeting, fragile—when I caught him staring off into the distance, his smile faltering as though he was somewhere far away. A phone call he wouldn't explain. A silence that lingered longer than it should. He'd always brush it off, laughing, saying I worried too much. And maybe I let myself believe him, because believing otherwise meant risking the peace I had finally found.
When I thought everything was okay, suddenly, a storm came.
Jacob and I had been together for more than a year now—already on our third year in college. Every day felt like a blissful rhythm, a balance of routines and laughter. I'd introduced him to Kera, and the two of them became an instant hit. Sometimes, he'd even team up with her just to spy on me, making sure I actually ate my lunch. The two of them would exchange knowing looks whenever I tried to skip meals, and I'd roll my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, even though deep inside, I loved it.
For a while, it felt like nothing could break us. And maybe that was why the storm, when it came, felt even more merciless.