The stress didn't arrive suddenly. It accumulated. Exam schedules were taped to every noticeboard.
Red circles. Bold dates. Final.
The word followed Elian everywhere. At his desk. On the bus. In his sleep.
He answered questions perfectly in class—and then erased the same line three times at home.
Juni noticed. "You've been staring at that equation for ten minutes," he said gently.
Elian blinked. "I have?"
Juni nodded. "…You're not breathing."
The night before the first exam, Elian snapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just—sharp.
"Can you stop humming?" he said suddenly. The words hung between them.
Juni froze. "…Sorry," he said immediately, closing his sketchbook.
Elian's chest tightened. "I didn't mean—" he started, then stopped.
The damage was already there. Juni nodded too quickly. "It's okay," he said. "I'll go."
He stood.
The movement was automatic.
Too familiar.
Elian saw it then—saw what he'd touched without meaning to. "Juni, wait," Elian said, standing abruptly. "I'm sorry. I'm not angry at you."
Juni hesitated, back turned. "…You sounded like you were," he said quietly.
Elian swallowed hard. "I'm angry at myself," he admitted. "Because I'm scared of failing." The honesty hurt—but it steadied the air.
Juni turned back slowly. "…Failing what?" he asked.
"Everything," Elian said. "The exams. The expectations. The future everyone assumes I'll deliver."
His voice cracked.
Juni stepped closer, careful. "You're allowed to be scared," he said. "You don't have to be perfect for me."
Elian laughed weakly. "I don't know how to be anything else."
Juni shook his head gently. "Then let me stay while you learn."
They sat on the floor, backs against the bed, books forgotten. Elian pressed his palms into his eyes, breathing unevenly. "…What if I disappoint everyone?" he whispered.
Juni leaned into him. "Then you'll still be Elian," he said. "And I'll still be here."
Elian let out a shaky breath. And for the first time in weeks—He stopped holding everything up alone.
The first exam morning arrived quietly.
Gray light. Muted streets. Shared silence.
At the bus stop, Juni handed Elian a folded scrap of paper.
"What's this?" Elian asked.
Juni smiled faintly. "Open it later."
Elian nodded.
As they boarded the bus, Elian felt raw—but steadier. Pressure hadn't broken him. It had cracked him open. And someone was standing there, hands steady, helping him breathe through it.
Sometimes breaking wasn't the end.
Sometimes—It was the beginning of being honest.