Frank was a simple boy, born into a modest yet tightly knit family consisting of his kind but reserved parents, a jovial and sometimes mysterious uncle who told tales from his youth, a younger brother with a love for technology, and a curious little sister who always asked questions about the stars and the moon, and though their life wasn't extravagant, it was rich with moments that would one day form the foundation of Frank's identity; from a young age, Frank had always felt out of place in his surroundings, especially when it came to the towering, forest-draped mountains that surrounded his hometown like ancient, unyielding guardians—he found them cold, mysterious, and a little frightening, unlike most of the people in town who revered the mountains and their legends with near-religious awe, but for Frank, the mountains represented confinement, a wall too tall to climb, and while others hiked, explored, and sought adventure in the rugged slopes, Frank dreamed of cities, of skyscrapers, of glass and steel, of bustling streets where opportunity moved like electricity in the air, and his interests early on leaned toward design, structure, and the mechanics of how the world was built, not naturally, but by human hands—he was drawn to the precision and elegance of architecture, a field that combined his love for drawing with his deep curiosity about space and form, and even though there were many paths one could take to find a job in architecture, he knew from the beginning that it would not be easy, for his family's financial situation meant college would be a challenge, and opportunities were scarce in the sleepy town where he lived; yet in the midst of his dreams and ambitions, there was a moment in school—just an ordinary day at first—that changed the course of his life forever, when he noticed her, sitting three rows ahead in art class, head tilted slightly as she carefully outlined the wings of a bird on paper, her concentration so intense that he forgot what he was doing for a moment, and while he had seen her before in hallways and heard her name spoken in passing, something about that day made him truly see her for the first time; she was Sofia—or Sofiya, as he later learned she preferred to spell it—quiet, poised, and with a presence that seemed to float above the chatter and noise of high school, her hair a cascade of dark strands tied loosely in a braid that shimmered with the color of dried roses in the autumn light, and while Frank never mustered the courage to speak to her during those early days, he watched her quietly, not out of obsession, but out of admiration and mystery, like trying to understand a piece of music that touched something in your soul but whose lyrics you couldn't quite make out, and so the days passed, marked by glances and stolen moments, until one day, in the most unexpected way, the ice broke—he had forgotten his pen before an exam, and as he fumbled through his bag, clearly distressed, she leaned back and offered him one with a simple smile and the four words that would echo in his memory forever: "You look like trouble," she had said playfully, and just like that, the invisible wall between them crumbled, replaced by the fragile but growing bridge of conversation, shared jokes, and the subtle recognition of kindred spirits; over time, Frank and Sofiya became friends—not the loud kind that drew attention in hallways or posted selfies together, but quiet companions, partners in thought and sometimes silence, where comfort came not from constant words but from knowing the other was nearby, and in the unfolding seasons, he learned about her love of dance, of how her mother had trained her in classical forms since childhood, of the way she lost herself in rhythm and movement as though the world outside disappeared, and how she had won countless competitions, her room lined with awards that gleamed like captured moments of triumph, though she rarely talked about them unless asked, not out of modesty, but because dance to her was less about recognition and more about expression, about saying what words never could, and Frank, meanwhile, confided in her his love for buildings, for cities, for the blueprints he drew late at night while others slept, his dream to one day design a structure that could change the skyline of a place and perhaps the life of someone inside it—and in that mutual sharing, something deeper grew, an unspoken bond made of both ambition and vulnerability, and yet, life has a cruel way of testing the foundations we build, no matter how strong; Frank had always been closest to his mother, a quiet, gentle woman who supported his dreams even when others scoffed, who encouraged him to keep drawing even when he came home with failing grades, who stayed up late to bring him tea while he studied by the dim desk light, and her presence was a constant, like the soft warmth of the sun at dawn—but everything changed on a day that started like any other, when Frank came home to find silence thicker than usual, the kind of silence that screams, and soon he learned that his mother had collapsed earlier that morning, and though the doctors tried, the word 'aneurysm' was mentioned, and she was gone before he could say goodbye; her death hit him like a storm, not just of grief, but of identity, as if a core part of his soul had been torn away without warning, and in the days that followed, he moved through life like a ghost, going through motions, avoiding eye contact, barely speaking, unable to draw, unable to even look at a blueprint, because what was the point of building anything when the person who believed in him the most could no longer see it?—and during this time, Sofiya stayed near—not pushing, not offering empty words, but just being there, a silent anchor in the raging waters of grief, sometimes leaving a note in his locker, sometimes just sitting beside him after school without saying a thing, until slowly, painfully, he found his way back to the pencil, to the sketchpad, to the memory of his mother's voice telling him that beauty was in persistence, and that buildings weren't just walls—they were promises, shelters, places where lives unfolded, and in time, he realized that to give up would be to lose her twice, so he pressed on, fueled by both pain and purpose, and with Sofiya's quiet encouragement, he applied to an architecture program in the city, far from the mountains he had grown up hating, and even though the acceptance letter felt like a miracle, it came with the heavy cost of leaving behind his family, his roots, and Sofiya, whose own dreams were pulling her in a different direction, toward dance conservatories in Europe, and though they promised to stay in touch, life has a way of scattering people like leaves in the wind, and as the years went by, Frank did indeed build—first models, then designs, then actual structures, rising from the earth like declarations that he was still here, still dreaming, still fighting, and each project held something of his past: a curve that resembled his mother's handwriting, a window that caught light the way Sofiya's eyes once did, and though he sometimes walked alone through the cities he helped shape, there were moments—brief, powerful—when he'd see someone dancing in a park, or catch a whiff of rose in the air, or hear a stranger say something in just the tone she used, and he would pause, heart beating fast, eyes searching, before the moment passed and he returned to his path, carrying all the people he loved not behind him, but within him, like invisible beams holding up the structure of his soul, and while the boy named Frank had once been simple, now he was layered, scarred, forged by memory, love, ambition, and loss, and still, he walked forward, step by step, never forgetting the girl with the rose-like hair, the mother with the warm tea, and the dream that once seemed as distant as the stars his little sister used to talk about, and now lived, brick by brick, in every line he drew.
One quiet evening, as the sun dipped low behind the distant ridge, bathing the world in golden hues of a fading day, she turned to Frank with a stillness in her eyes that belied the flurry of questions that had gathered over time—questions born not of suspicion, but of wonder, of the fragile ache of human connection stretched taut across the mystery of something timeless—and she said softly, almost like a whisper folded inside a sigh, "What's between you and me? We talk so much." The words hung there, delicate and searching, not demanding answers but inviting truths, and for a moment Frank did not respond; he merely tilted his head, the edges of his lips curving into the kind of smile one wears when they've carried a secret so long it has become a second skin, and he studied her like someone might study a horizon they've watched for centuries, knowing every shift of light and cloud, yet still surprised by its beauty—and then he said, not with arrogance but with the calm certainty of one who has outlived the urgency of lies, "You don't understand what's in immortality." He did not speak it as a metaphor, nor as a riddle meant to distract; he said it plainly, like a man telling you the sky is blue or that water remembers the moon, and yet the meaning behind the words stretched out like an unseen sea beneath the silence, echoing with lifetimes of grief, wonder, solitude, and love unfulfilled. She looked at him then—not with disbelief, for she had always sensed something unknowable beneath the surface of his presence, something still and vast—and said, not pressing but gently, as if peeling back the layers of something sacred, "I know… but I wanted to hear it from you." Her voice trembled just slightly, the way truth does when it finally finds the courage to step out into the open, and in that moment, time seemed to fold in on itself, layering decades and centuries into the pause between their breaths. Frank looked away, not out of shame, but out of memory—out of the weight of lifetimes spent watching people come and go, cities rise and fall, stars blink out and be reborn in new corners of the universe—and when he finally met her gaze again, there was a softness there, an ancient kind of affection not rooted in the fleeting pulse of romance, but in something deeper, more eternal, like the pull of the tide to the moon. "It's not what you think," he began, and as the words poured forth, so too did the stories—of past lives and forgotten wars, of lovers whose names time had worn smooth, of friendships so deep they crossed the boundaries of death and memory, and of loneliness, the kind that doesn't scream but simply sits beside you in every quiet room, every new beginning. He spoke of the slow erosion of wonder that comes when you've seen too much, of how beauty fades not because it changes, but because you stop being surprised, and how, in rare moments, someone comes along who reminds you what it means to feel new again. She listened, not with disbelief but with a reverence one reserves for the last note of a symphony or the first cry of a newborn, and as he spoke, the pieces of their connection fell into place like stars finding their rightful place in a constellation written long ago. Between them stretched not just words or memories, but something older than either could name—a recognition, a resonance, the quiet knowing that in the vast, endless sea of existence, some souls are drawn together not by chance, but by some ancient thread woven before even time itself began. And though she would age, and he would not, though she would forget things and he would remember too much, they sat there as the sky deepened into indigo and the first stars blinked open their eyes, not needing promises or answers anymore, just the understanding that whatever passed between them—words, silences, lifetimes—was real, and that, in the end, is what matters most.
She had always possessed that uncanny ability, almost telepathic, to intuit what Frankr was thinking, to sense the soft stirrings of sadness behind his distant eyes, to feel the way his breath faltered when he was burdened with thoughts too heavy for words, yet despite this unspoken connection, she longed to hear the truth in his voice, the sound of his soul laid bare—not merely implied through glances or inferred from silence, but spoken, confessed, declared—because there was something different about the way people reveal themselves when they believe they are not being guessed at but genuinely understood through their own articulation, and so she waited patiently, quietly, letting him find the words at his own pace until at last, perhaps because the pressure inside his chest had become unbearable, or maybe because he believed—foolishly or faithfully—that he was finally safe with someone who truly saw him, Frankr opened up, piece by piece, like pages being gently turned in an old book no one had touched in years, and he spoke of things he never thought he would, about the quiet nights where loneliness sat beside him like a familiar ghost, about the unresolved ache of dreams that never quite took shape, about the lingering guilt of promises he had made to himself and broken without ever fully admitting why, about the strange comfort of pain when it was the only thing he knew how to carry, and she listened—not just with her ears but with her whole presence—nods that came not from politeness but recognition, eyes that never turned away even when the truths were ugly or painful or strange, and Frankr, who had always been guarded, whose heart had been a house with locked doors and drawn curtains, felt something inside him tremble, a release, as if maybe this time, someone could see him without running away, someone could hold all the jagged pieces and not bleed, and he spoke of her too, not just in the present tense but the past and all its fragile weight, telling her she was his first love, the kind of love that doesn't come with strategy or caution, that just arrives one day and sits inside you like sunlight, the kind that teaches you the shape of your own soul by reflecting it in someone else, the kind that makes you believe in a version of forever even when the clock keeps ticking, and he told her he trusted her, that he believed in the honesty of her words, in the lightness of her laughter, in the sincerity of her "I'm here," in the purity of their connection, unaware that beneath the surface of their intimacy was a different story unfolding, quiet but undeniable, the shadow of another presence in her life—someone she spoke to when Frankr wasn't around, someone she told herself was just a friend but who perhaps occupied a part of her that Frankr never touched, or not anymore, or maybe never did, and though she insisted it was innocent, just conversations, just checking in, just sharing pieces of herself in a different tone, in a different space, Frankr, who would have once known her every look, every shift in mood, every beat of breath, now only knew the version of her that showed up for him, not the whole truth, not the complexity, and he didn't ask, not yet, because he didn't want to believe that love could live alongside a secret, and maybe in some ways he already knew, maybe the sadness he poured out that night wasn't only about himself but about the creeping sense that he was loving someone who was no longer fully there, someone divided, someone slipping, but still he gave her everything—his words, his hurts, his past, his truth—because what else could he do with all of it, and she, hearing him, receiving it, nodding, saying "I understand," perhaps meant it, perhaps wished she could be as fully his as he was hers, perhaps didn't know how to reconcile what she wanted with what she was doing, or maybe didn't believe it was wrong at all, but whatever the case, Frankr sat there, heart exposed, unaware of the silent rupture growing beneath the surface, unaware of the way trust can fracture not from lies but from omissions, and still believing, despite everything, that love spoken aloud was love made real, that if he said it plainly enough, wholly enough, it would be enough to hold them both.
One day, under the overcast sky that blanketed the narrow town of Eldersville, Johna, with her hands tucked into the deep pockets of her worn corduroy coat and heart beating like a distant drum in her chest, turned to Franka, a girl whose laughter felt like the echo of wind chimes on a spring afternoon, and with a soft yet unyielding voice, asked her, "Franka, how much do you think you'll love me?"—a question so steeped in vulnerability that even the old trees that stood along the edge of the town square seemed to hush their rustling leaves in reverence, as if nature itself paused to hear the response; Franka, caught between the joy of the question and the awkward hesitation that often accompanies truth, let out a laugh—not mocking, but a kind of surprised, nervous laugh, the kind that wraps around confusion and warmth all at once—and with a sly upward curve of her lips and a glint of something unsaid in her eyes, she replied, "More than a million," and although her tone was playful, Johna couldn't quite tell if that was a real measure of love or just a phrase borrowed from childhood, one that parents say when tucking in their children, "I love you more than a million stars," or "I love you more than a million jellybeans," sweet and vague and boundless, but not precise, not anchored, yet it still stirred something deep within Johna, something like hope, something like fear, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if this love—her love—was something that could be reciprocated, measured, or even named, but before she could ask, before she could press further, Franka's smile faded slightly, replaced by a quiet solemnity as she turned away, her boots making soft thuds against the stone walkway as she walked off toward the far side of the square, leaving behind the scent of rain-drenched pine and unresolved questions, and as Johna watched her go, feeling a mix of ache and longing and the sharp sting of unsaid words, she noticed someone else watching too—Frank, her longtime friend, the boy who always seemed to exist on the periphery of every conversation, every group photo, every school event, never quite belonging, but always present, like a shadow that arrived before dusk, and though most people in Eldersville knew Frank as the quiet one, the polite one, the boy who held doors and carried boxes for the elderly, there was a certain darkness to him that Johna had always sensed, a sort of carefully hidden hollowness, like a smile stretched over broken glass, and in that moment she saw it—not the boy he pretended to be, but the boy he really was, a boy with eyes too eager, eyes that lingered too long, and as he watched Franka walk away, Johna noticed the hunger in his gaze, the way his eyes trailed after Franka's every step with an intensity that was neither friendly nor harmless, and suddenly it all made sense: the way Frank had asked about Franka in that too-casual tone last week, how he seemed overly curious about their conversations, how his gaze always drifted to her even when he was pretending to listen to Johna talk about books or dreams or the aching tenderness she held for Franka that she hadn't dared to confess out loud until that very day, and now it all snapped into focus like the sharp ring of a snapped guitar string, and she felt her throat tighten with dread, not just for herself, but for Franka, who had no idea that Frank, her supposed friend, the boy who'd once helped her fix her bicycle chain and who brought her coffee when she was tired during finals, was also the same boy who now watched her with a gaze that felt more like possession than affection, and while everyone else still saw him as harmless, as quiet Frank, Johna knew better—she saw beneath the surface, saw the way he could manipulate silence into a mask, the way he used kindness as camouflage, and though Franka didn't know the truth—didn't see the danger in those eyes or the weight of attention that was beginning to curdle into obsession—Johna knew she had to protect her, had to find a way to warn her without pushing her away, without making her think she was jealous or paranoid or just another girl who couldn't handle unrequited feelings, and that's when the internal battle began, a swirling storm of doubt and urgency, because how do you save someone who doesn't know they need saving, and how do you reveal a truth that no one else is ready to believe, especially when the villain wears a mask of charm, of friendship, of innocence, and as Johna sat down on the low stone bench by the old fountain and watched the last traces of Franka's silhouette disappear around the corner of the café, she felt a sense of helplessness settle over her like early frost, and even as she tried to piece together what to do next—how to reach Franka, how to watch Frank without making him suspicious—she couldn't stop the dull ache that pressed against her ribs, the ache of having almost said "I love you" and not knowing if that love would ever be safe, ever be returned, ever be enough to protect Franka from a boy who wore friendship like a cloak and hid his true nature beneath layers of silence and sugar-coated lies, and in that stillness, with the town slowly darkening and the lamps flickering on one by one like distant stars, Johna made a quiet vow to herself—not just to love Franka more than a million, but to guard that love, to fight for it, even if it meant unraveling the truth about Frank, even if it meant standing alone, because sometimes love isn't just about holding hands and sharing dreams; sometimes love is about standing between someone you care about and the danger they can't yet see.