The room is silent.
Not the sharp silence of anger. Not the hollow quiet of abandonnt. Sothing softer. Sothing harder to ignore.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands resting loosely on my knees. The mattress dips softly beneath my weight. Beside , a careful distance away, Silas sits with his eyes lowered, his notebook and pencil resting in his lap.
The sheets between us are rumpled—twisted into chaos, pulled loose from the corners during our chase, our laughter, whatever that was.
A pillow lies on the floor, pale against the dark marble, tilted where it fell during the chase. Evidence of sothing I still don’t fully understand.
I can’t believe I joined him.
Can’t believe I let myself run. Let myself laugh. Let myself pin him to this very bed, his wrists caught in my hands, his breath warm against my chin.
Like we were children.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His gaze is still fixed downward, his brown lashes casting soft shadows against his cheeks. His fingers rest motionless on the cover of his notebook, pale against the black leather.
He looks like he’s waiting for sothing.
A scolding, perhaps. A punishnt. For sneaking into my room like a cat—silent, swift, impossible to catch until he decided to let himself be caught.
Then he looks up.
Our eyes et.
Just for a mont. A heartbeat. A breath held too long. Sothing passes between us—too quick to na, too slow to ignore.
I blink.
Look away.
Turn my face toward the glass wall, toward the garden outside, where white roses sway in the darkness and golden fairy lights flicker like distant stars fallen to earth. The night presses against the glass, cool and patient, waiting for nothing at all.
Why does it feel so awkward?
Why does sitting beside him feel like standing at the edge of sothing I can’t see the end of?
The silence stretches between us, heavy enough to feel. Finally, I break it.
My voice is quiet. Softer than I intended. Almost reluctant, as if the words are being pulled from sowhere deep and unwilling.
"What do you want to talk about?"
Silas blinks, startled by the sudden question. His body shifts slightly, like a sleeper waking from a dream.
His fingers move across the page, pencil scratching against paper in hurried, eager strokes. He tears the note out and offers it to , his hand trembling just slightly at the wrist.
Without looking at him, I take it.
You didn’t finish the story. The Tale of Nine Flowers.
I stare at the words.
The letters are small, neat, careful—each one shaped with deliberate precision, as if he’s afraid of being misunderstood.
Irritation rises slowly in my chest. I crumple the note in my fist. The paper protests—a sharp, crumpling sound in the quiet.
I throw it aside.
"Look who’s complaining," I say, turning to face him. My voice cos out sharper than I intended, edged with sothing that isn’t quite anger. "I didn’t finish the story because you didn’t listen. You fell asleep."
His eyes widen. Just a little. Just enough for to notice.
A flush creeps across his cheeks, spreading across his pale skin like watercolor. He looks down quickly, embarrassed, his lashes fanning against his skin.
His fingers tighten around the pencil, knuckles whitening, and he writes another note with hurried, apologetic strokes. He offers it to without looking up.
I’m sorry. Whenever I’m with you, I fall asleep so peacefully. I don’t even realize it.
So peacefully.
The phrase unsettles . Stays with . Lodges itself sowhere beneath my ribs, warm and unfamiliar.
I don’t know what to do with the image of him curled against the pillow, sleeping so peacefully. Like he feels safe here.
Safe with .
I look away.
"I don’t care." My voice is flat, but it costs sothing to keep it that way—a small, secret effort that leaves feeling exposed. "Now get out of my room. I’m sleepy."
He doesn’t move. Instead, his pencil scratches across the page again, quiet and insistent.
What about the story?
I set the pillow behind . Lean back. Create more distance between us, more space, more walls.
"I’m not telling it. Go read it from the book."
His face changes.
It’s subtle—almost invisible. But I see it. The way the light behind his eyes dims, just a fraction. The way his lower lip pushes out, not in a pout this ti, but in sothing closer to disappointnt. Sothing closer to hurt.
He looks down at his notebook. His fingers hover over the page, trembling slightly, as if he’s not sure what to write next. Then he writes again.
Then... tell about your childhood.
Childhood. Again.
Sothing inside snaps. Not loudly. Not violently. Just—a thread pulled too tight, a wound pressed too hard. The words co out before I can stop them, sharp enough to cut.
"I don’t want to talk about that." My voice slices through the silence. "Or anything."
Silas flinches.
His whole body recoils, just a little, as if I’ve struck him. His shoulders curl inward, making himself smaller, less visible.
But his eyes stay on —wide, unblinking, holding sothing I can’t na. Sothing that looks like understanding.
It makes it worse.
My eyes pin him in place.
"Why am I the one who has to answer everything?" The words co faster now, harder, impossible to pull back. "Tell about yourself. Who are you exactly? Why did you suddenly appear in my life? Where is your family? What about your childhood?"
He doesn’t blink. But sothing flickers across his face. A shadow. Then it’s gone.
Replaced by that familiar stillness, that quiet acceptance that unnerves more than anger ever could.
He looks down at his notebook. His fingers move slowly across the page—deliberately, carefully, as if each word is being pulled from sowhere deep and painful.
He writes longer this ti.
The pencil scratches against the paper, steady and relentless, filling the page with small, neat letters. When he finishes, he tears the sheet from the notebook with a soft, final rip.
He hands it to .
I take it.
I am Silas Stoneheart. From X Country. The second heir of the Stoneheart family.
A pause in the writing. A breath caught between lines.
My mother passed away when I was six years old. I don’t rember much of her—only her voice, and the way she smiled at .
My father passed away two years ago. I was with him at the end. His last words were to take care of the family business and beco a businessman worthy of carrying his na.
I have an older brother. He didn’t co to the wedding because we don’t get along. Our mothers were different. He was born to my father’s first wife. I was born to his second. We share blood, but not much else.
The handwriting trembles slightly near the end.
And I’m sorry. For suddenly appearing in your life. I know you didn’t ask for this. I know you didn’t want .
But I really like you. I can’t help it.
I stare at the note.
My face breaks. The words blur slightly, swimming before my eyes. I blink them back.
He lost his mother when he was six.
The anger drains out of , leaving sothing hollow in its place. Sothing that feels dangerously close to regret.
He writes another note. His hand is steadier now.
I’m sorry for asking so many questions. I didn’t an to make you angry. I just wanted to talk to you. To know you.
A final pause.
Good night.
Before I can look at him—before I can open my mouth to say sothing, anything, even if it’s just his na—he stands up.
He walks to the door. His footsteps are soft against the polished floor. Quiet. Deliberate. Like he’s trying not to disturb the silence any further.
The door opens. A slice of hallway light spills into the room, pale and cold.
He pauses at the threshold. His shoulders curve inward slightly, fragile in a way I’ve never noticed before.
Then he steps through. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
He’s gone.
The notes rest in my hands. The paper is warm from his fingers—or maybe that’s my imagination.
I stare at the door.
What was that?
Did I make him sad?
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