Elias
He didn't go to class all day.
He didn't go home either.
Instead, he sat on the back steps until dark, the cold seeping into his bones. He replayed everything in his mind—the woman whispering "I felt something," her hand on his cheek, the almost kiss, the students entering, the fear that welled up in him like an old wound reopening.
He hated himself for running.
He hated himself for hurting her.
He hated himself for liking her so much that he was scared.
His phone rang again.
It was Aurora.
Elias… please, don't lose me.
Talk to me.
He closed his eyes.
He wanted to talk to her.
But the words seemed too dangerous.
So he peeked into the music room—the big one this time—to clear his mind. The lights were dim, the air cold and still.
He sat down at the piano.
His fingers moved, trembling…
then fell into the melody of the song he had not finished.
What he wrote for her.
The one that almost bound them together now.
He played softly, each note trembling with pain.
He didn't hear the door open behind her.
But he felt him.
Aurora entered the room quietly, her breath catching at the sound of his playing. She approached slowly, as if afraid that he would disappear like the morning mist.
"Elias," she whispered.
He stopped playing.
But he didn't look at her.
"I told you I needed space," he said softly.
"No," Aurora whispered, as she approached. "You told me you were afraid. It's not like that anymore."
He squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't do it."
"Yes, you can."
Her voice was shaking.
"Don't give up what we almost got."
He turned to face him, his eyes red.
"Aurora… I'm not enough for you."
She stepped closer until there was no space left between them.
"You shouldn't decide that," she whispered.
And for the first time—
Elias didn't run.