Where the silence screams ⸝⸝ (Part 2)
⟡ I always try to keep the same word count for all of them, but sometimes I get carried away with one more than the other. I’m sorry for that, I swear I try 💔
⟡ Characters: Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus, Zayne, Caleb
⟡ Summary: The silence you left behind became too heavy to bear. Unable to cope with the absence of your voice, they decide to come to you.
He didn’t know how much time had passed since he sat in front of your door that night.
Waiting — hoping — that at some point, you’d feel sorry for the pathetic state he was in, even though he was the one who had put himself there.
But when he saw the sun rising through the hallway window, where he sat like an abandoned puppy waiting for its owner, he realized… you weren’t going to come out.
Maybe because you knew he was there?
Or maybe because you were so hurt that you didn’t even have the strength to open the door that morning.
He didn’t know which of those two hurt more.
Soon, you (and he) would have to head back to the Hunters’ headquarters. So, reluctantly, he pushed himself up from the cold floor, the weight of the silence behind that door heavier than anything he’d faced in the field. His legs ached, and his heart even more.
He hesitated one last time, glancing at the door as if hoping it would suddenly open, just a crack, just enough to see your face.
With a quiet breath, he turned away.
Maybe at the Hunters’ headquarters, he’d get the chance to see you. To talk. To say everything he couldn’t through a closed door.
It wasn’t much to hold onto.
Earlier than necessary, actually.
He sat at the usual table, fingers interlaced in front of him, his vacant gaze fixed on the dormant screen. The chair creaked slightly whenever he shifted, restless. The seat beside him — your seat — remained empty.
And for some reason, that made him feel more exposed than if a thousand eyes were watching him.
You had to. Neither of you could avoid duty forever.
But knowing that didn’t untie the knot in his stomach or calm the tight pulse in his throat.
He thought about rehearsing what he would say. A more direct apology. A “forgive me” less pathetic than sitting outside your door in silence like a broken man.
But no words felt right. None of them felt like enough.
Then the door slid open with a soft hiss.
Wearing the standard base uniform, you looked composed, but your eyes were colder than he remembered. And tired.
You didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause, just walked straight to your seat and sat down like he was nothing but part of the furniture.
Xavier nearly forgot how to breathe.
“Good morning,” he offered, voice low, as though afraid to wake a sleeping beast.
He lowered his eyes to his hands, forcing himself not to say more.
You needed space. He knew that.
But sitting next to you and not being able to touch you, not hearing your voice…
He didn’t know how much time passed like that, minutes, maybe more, the kind of silence that didn’t fill space, only made it feel heavier.
Xavier tried to focus on the screen in front of him, but nothing held his attention. As if every second next to you without a single word was another punishment.
Eventually — after far too long — he got up without a word.
He walked to the base cafeteria and bought your coffee exactly the way you liked it. He also picked up your favorite dessert, the one you always claimed to grab “by accident.”
He returned and placed the coffee in front of you. The dessert beside it. Still, he said nothing.
You glanced up. Your eyes shifted from the items, then to him.
But you didn’t speak. Your expression was neutral. Tired. But not as cold as before.
Xavier sat back down in silence, doing everything he could to hold back the weight pressing on his chest.
Some time later, both of your communicators buzzed simultaneously.
“Dual mission. East patrol sector. Departure in 20 minutes.”
Xavier closed his eyes for a moment, the announcement echoing in his ears alongside every thought he’d been trying to suppress since the fight.
Going on a mission like this, pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.
He didn’t know if he could take it…
Still, the message left no room for hesitation. So, without a word, you both stood and began walking.
You walked side by side down the hall to the hangar, still not exchanging a word.
It was only when you reached the docking door that he finally stopped walking.
“Wait,” he said, his voice rough with tension.
You stopped. But you didn’t look at him.
“I don’t want to go on this mission with you hating me,” he said at last, the truth pouring out unfiltered.
“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness yet. But I needed you to know… I’m sorry. Really sorry. For what I said. I hate it when we’re like this. I hate it when you ignore me. I hate when you pretend I don’t exist.”
You could hear the tremor in his voice with each word that left his mouth.
“And I hate being away from you.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, your heart betraying you with a painful little thump at his words.
“I wish I could turn back time and take back everything I said. Please believe me… I swear I won’t be that idiot again…”
You didn’t answer right away.
But then, you turned to face him, and this time, your eyes weren’t empty. They were softer. Almost thoughtful.
“I’m making caramel pie tonight,” you said quietly, “for us.”
And with that, you walked ahead, not waiting for his reaction.
Xavier stood frozen for a moment, warmth flooding his chest just from hearing your voice again.
And for the first time that day, a real smile touched his lips, small, hesitant…
But filled with a relief as sweet as the pie he couldn’t wait to share with you.
The next morning, Rafayel’s tired eyes remained fixed on the blank screen of his phone, the messages he had sent, all ignored by you, along with the countless calls that went straight to voicemail after only a few rings.
The unfinished painting in front of him served as a cruel reminder of why he was in this miserable state.
You still hadn’t shown any sign of coming to the studio that morning, like you usually did on your days off. And that made the guilt inside him heavier with each passing hour.
Because this time, he couldn’t pretend you were away on some urgent mission. He couldn’t lie to himself and say you were simply too busy to come. No — you were home.
And you didn’t want to see him.
He thought, again and again, about running to your apartment and begging for forgiveness. Dropping to his knees if he had to. But the fear stopped him, the fear that showing up might only push you further away.
He sent flowers, your favorites. Nothing dramatic, just a simple arrangement in brown paper with a small handwritten note that said:
“I miss the sound of your voice. I’m sorry for making it go silent.”
He called your favorite restaurant and asked them to deliver your favorite meal straight to your apartment, everything just the way you liked it.
A few hours later, he sent you a series of photos, close-ups of the painting he had made of you, now touched up with even more detail. The colors were richer, the light softer, the expression on your painted face more alive than ever. It was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.
That's when the night came, surrounded by proof that none of it mattered, Rafayel understood.
Flowers wouldn’t fix it. Meals wouldn’t fix it. Art wouldn’t fix it.
If he wanted forgiveness, if he even deserved to be in the same room as you again, he had to face the silence he created.
He had to look you in the eye.
So he stood up. No bouquet. No charm. Just a shattered man with too many regrets and only one person who could silence them.
Your apartment door echoed with two dry knocks.
Not a message. Not a warning. Just that sound, sudden and quiet, like his heart was holding its breath.
When you opened it, the sight of him nearly made you close it again.
He looked like hell. Exhausted, disheveled, nothing like the composed, magnetic man you once knew. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair a mess, his voice barely audible when he spoke.
“I… didn’t come to explain myself,” he said. “There’s no excuse for how I hurt you. There’s only guilt. And it’s been eating me alive.”
Your arms crossed over your chest. Your eyes cold and unreadable.
“I tried to fix it without facing you,” he admitted. “I thought maybe if I sent the right words, the right gifts, the right… anything, you might forgive me. But now I see that none of that matters if I don’t have the guts to say this to your face.”
“You didn’t deserve my anger. You didn’t deserve my silence after it. You only ever gave me patience, and I paid it back with pain. I know you don’t owe me a single thing. But still—”
“I’m here. Not to beg… but to show you I am sorry. Not just with words. With everything I am.”
He stepped forward — just one step — but didn’t cross the doorway.
“I’ll carry the weight of what I did as long as you need me to. But I need you to know… I hate the silence between us. And I’d give anything to hear you say something. Even if it’s just to tell me to leave.”
Your heart pounded in your chest.
And still, you let the silence sit. You watched him suffer in it. Let him stew in everything he caused. There was something quietly satisfying about that — about seeing how much he regretted it.
Then, finally, you spoke. Calm. Cold. But not cruel.
“…Take your shoes off if you’re coming in.”
It was nothing like the forgiveness he might’ve fantasized about. There were no tears. No dramatic hugs. No relief.
But that small gesture, that first crack in your wall, was everything.
It meant he still had a chance. Not a clean slate. But a step toward it.
He slipped off his shoes in silence and stepped inside.
The city lights outside reflected in Sylus’s crimson eyes. The sky, dark and monotonous as always, somehow mirrored his mood.
He had rehearsed countless ways to apologize.
Sending one last message. Waiting by your door. Catching you after work, as if that would compel you to listen.
How could he possibly put into words everything he felt after saying those things?
You had only tried to help. Tried to be there when he was at his limit. And he pushed you away, lashed out at the one person who saw through the cracks in his armor and stayed.
Now, you said nothing. No arguments, no accusations, no demands.
And the silence was unbearable.
Sylus closed his eyes, taking a slow breath.
He knew he needed to see you. Not to ease his own guilt, but because only by looking into your eyes could he say what truly mattered.
And that, even if you chose not to forgive him, you deserved the truth.
He didn’t want distance from you. He wanted a chance.
Even if he had to fight for it from the ground up.
“Flowers?” Luke suggested with a mischievous grin, leaning against Sylus’s desk.
“Or perhaps a personalized gift,” Kieran added more seriously, adjusting his mask. “Something that shows you care.”
Sylus cast a tired glance toward the twins.
“You two really think that’ll work?”
Luke shrugged, scratching his head lightly. “We won’t know unless we try, boss. Girls love flowers!”
Kieran nodded, voice calm as always. “Sometimes, a simple gesture can open doors that words can’t.”
Sylus sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“What if I just go to her and say what I feel?”
Luke’s grin softened into something almost supportive. “That works too! But bring the flowers. Seriously. They soften the impact.”
Kieran added, thoughtful as ever, “And maybe some jasmine tea. She likes that. Said it helps her sleep.”
Sylus stared at them in silence for a moment. Then, to their surprise, he gave a small nod. A rare, grateful look in his eyes.
“Thanks,” he murmured. “Both of you.”
Luke winked. “That’s what we’re here for, boss!”
Kieran nodded again. “Always.”
The sky had already begun to darken again when Sylus stopped in front of your door.
The hallway lights flickered faintly, casting long, uneven shadows that danced over his slow, heavy steps. Each one felt like a weight pulling him deeper into a moment he couldn’t control. He didn’t know if you were home. Didn’t know if you’d open the door. Didn’t know if you wanted to see him ever again.
In one hand, a small bouquet of flowers. Simple, but carefully chosen: muted colors you once said made you feel at peace, on a day he hadn’t even realized he was memorizing everything about you.
In the other, a small bag with your favorite jasmine tea, the one you’d once jokingly called your “emergency antidote for stress.” He remembered. Of course he did.
He hesitated only a second longer before raising his hand and knocking.
Just as the silence threatened to crush him, the latch turned slowly.
Tired eyes, neutral expression, wrapped in an oversized hoodie. The look on your face unreadable, but not hostile. You didn’t speak.
“…Hi,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. Almost unsure.
You crossed your arms and leaned against the doorframe, waiting.
“I’m not expecting you to forgive me,” he started, carefully. His red eyes locked on yours, steady but sincere. “I just… needed to say that what I did was wrong. I know you didn’t have to listen. But still… you deserve to hear it.”
He held up the bouquet with a tentative motion, like even the gesture might break.
“This doesn’t make up for anything. But I wanted to bring something that reminded me of you. Something that… felt like you.”
“When you tried to help me, I took it as weakness. And that’s on me. I was raised to see vulnerability as danger. But you weren’t wrong to care. I was wrong to throw it back at you.”
He took a quiet breath, voice catching slightly.
“The silence you gave me after… that was the worst punishment. Because it was fair. And because it made me realize what it means to lose someone who mattered.”
Your eyes lowered just slightly.
But still, you didn’t shut the door.
“I don’t know if I can fix it,” he went on, taking one careful step forward, just enough to offer the tea in his hand. “But if you’ll let me… I want to try. Properly. Slowly. However you need.”
The silence between you stretched again.
But then, your fingers brushed against the flowers.
You took them gently. Your eyes still not meeting his.
“…Jasmine tea?” you asked softly.
Sylus let out a quiet breath of a laugh. It wasn’t smooth like usual. It trembled around the edges, like a sound that had waited too long to come out.
“You said it helps you sleep.”
You stood there for a beat. Then another.
And slowly, you stepped back, just enough for the door to open wider. Just enough for the warm light from your apartment to spill across the space between you.
You didn’t smile. You didn’t say “I forgive you.”
But you didn’t close the door, either.
And Sylus, with all his training, all his strength, all his control, understood something very human in that moment:
You were still hurt. Still protecting your heart. But you’d made room for him to step forward.
Not fully forgiven. Not fully healed.
But maybe… Just enough to begin again.
The hospital was already in motion when he arrived, punctual as always.
The hallways were bathed in that cold, artificial light he knew all too well. The rhythmic sounds of hurried footsteps, heart monitors, and muffled voices created a constant soundtrack, almost comforting. A place where everything made sense. Where everything followed protocols, numbers, logic.
Zayne adjusted the badge in his lab coat pocket, his fingers lingering on the gesture longer than necessary. Not because he was distracted, Zayne never allowed himself distractions, but because, for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t leave something behind.
The image of your expression as you turned your face away that night was still burned into his mind. There were no shouts, no dramatic scenes. Just that silence. Sharp. Precise.
The kind of pain he didn’t know how to heal.
He had slept, or pretended to sleep, on the couch. The house was quiet when he left. No exchanged glances. No sound of your voice. Not even the soft “have a good day” you used to say every morning, even when you were upset.
Zayne knew he had crossed a line. That the words he said, unintentionally or not, hit you in a way he hadn’t been able to stop. He tried to justify it to himself, the stress of surgery, too many sleepless hours.
But none of those excuses mattered.
You had only tried to help.
And he, as always, chose the colder, more functional path.
Now, sitting in the break room, a coffee mug in his hands, he wondered how to fix it.
Not with flowers, he thought. You’d hate something so predictable. Not with messages, he had already tried that, and they remained marked as “read” with no reply. He still checked, though. Every time. And felt the weight of the silence like a scalpel to the skin.
He didn’t know what hurt more: the regret, or the realization that maybe you were truly tired of trying to break through the walls he built around himself.
Zayne rested his elbows on his knees, staring at a random point on the floor.
He could recite every post-op complication of a neonatal cardioplasty by heart. He could diagnose an arrhythmia with two taps on a monitor. But he had no idea how to ask for your forgiveness in a way that would be enough.
He tried to work as if nothing was wrong. He saw patients, typed reports, maintained perfect composure. But his colleagues started to notice, even Greyson asked if he needed anything. Zayne only replied with a nod.
But the weight in his chest kept growing. More than any cardiac complication he’d ever treated. Because he knew what it meant: he was willing to fail at what he’d always done perfectly, if it meant one more chance to hear your voice.
To fix what he had destroyed with a few cold, fearful words.
It was between appointments that he finally stopped.
He looked at the clock once more — 3:07 P.M.
He took a deep breath and, with steps far too calm for someone panicking inside, Zayne took off his lab coat and handed the final paperwork to a staff member. He simply said he had to take care of something personal, just enough for no one to question him, because no one questioned Zayne. But they all looked surprised.
He never left early, let alone broke his routine. But for you, he would always make an exception.
Getting into the car, Zayne thought of a dozen things he could buy to bring to you. He didn’t want to buy your forgiveness with gifts, of course not. He just needed a bridge.
His mind was a mess. No idea seemed right. Nothing seemed worthy of what you deserved to hear, or of what he felt.
The café wasn’t far. A small place, tucked between the hospital’s corner and one of the administrative buildings, discreet enough for him to prefer it over the big chains. You always talked about the sweet pies there with a sparkle in your eyes. He remembered perfectly how you always smiled when he said you two could stop by after work.
Zayne didn’t know if buying you something sweet in a moment like this would help at all. But at that moment, he needed to try anything that could help him express himself, since the right words still felt like a language he didn’t quite speak.
He entered with his usual methodical precision. Quick, focused, ignoring the voices and movement around him. Until…
There, sitting at the corner table, was you.
Arms crossed on the table, eyes distant as you stared out the window, lost in thought just like he was. A cup of something warm sat untouched in front of you. Your expression was tired. Not sad. Not angry. Just… exhausted.
As if that moment had drained everything from you.
Zayne didn’t think. He simply moved without planning.
He walked silently to your table. Stopped in front of you and hesitated only for a second before speaking, his voice softer, more contained than usual.
You didn’t answer with words. You just looked at him. That silence was still there, thick. But there was something in your eyes. A crack in the shield. A narrow opening, and he knew he had only one chance to get through.
You nodded faintly, turning your gaze back to the window.
He stayed there for a moment, hands clasped on the table, searching for the right thing to say. Then he exhaled slowly and met your eyes.
“I know I said I’d wait until you were ready and wanted to talk… but I can’t.” His gaze shifted briefly from yours before returning. “I was cruel.”
He drew in a deep breath before continuing:
“I knew what I was doing when I spoke to you that way.” He lowered his head again, as if the words burned as they left his mouth. “And I know you didn’t deserve it. You were trying to help me. And I turned it into a stupid problem, just because I was stressed.”
The silence remained. But he could feel that you were listening.
“I just hope you know that I deeply regret what I did. I never meant for you to become the target of my frustration… quite the opposite.” His voice dropped even more. “You’ve always been my safe place.”
You didn’t say anything for a few seconds. The sound of your quickened heartbeat, paired with his heavy breathing, filled the space between you.
Then, slowly, you leaned over the table toward him. Your hand rose gently, your fingers brushing the rumpled collar of his shirt, straightening it, like you’d done so many times before.
It was a simple gesture. Small. But filled with everything you still couldn’t bring yourself to say aloud.
“You forgot your glasses when you left today…” you murmured, almost neutrally, but your eyes showed a longing not even the hurt could hide.
Zayne held his breath, as if that comment were the first ray of light after days in a dark room.
You lowered your hand gently and let out a short, tired sigh.
“I know you were exhausted. That’s why you have to let me take care of you sometimes.”
Your eyes finally met his, calm, but firm. And even though the word forgiveness was never spoken, he understood. You were here. Still here.
And that was the only thing he needed.
The smell of breakfast drifted through the crack beneath the guest room door, the room you had chosen to sleep in after everything that happened.
The scent was warm and familiar… soft eggs, toasted bread, a hint of vanilla from your favorite tea. Caleb always remembered every detail.
Even when you didn’t want him to.
It was enough to stir you from sleep. Still groggy, you got up and padded slowly toward the door. But as your fingers touched the handle, your body froze.
A sharp memory from the night before struck you like lightning. His voice. The tension in his jaw. The way he pulled away when all you had done was try to help.
You blinked hard, pushing the memory down, and finally turned the handle.
The smell of breakfast was stronger now: soft, welcoming. Toast, eggs, fruit. Your favorite tea.
You followed the scent into the short hallway, your steps quiet against the floor.
The tray was waiting for you on the kitchen table. Neatly arranged. A folded napkin. Everything in its place. Like always.
Caleb was already there, standing by the counter with a dish towel in his hand, as if he had just finished cleaning up.
His eyes lifted the moment he saw you, wide, hopeful… and quietly afraid.
You walked past him without a glance and opened the cupboard, reaching for your favorite mug. You moved through the kitchen with quiet ease, pouring hot water, selecting your own tea, buttering a plain slice of bread, ignoring the untouched meal he had carefully prepared for you.
Caleb stood still. His chest rose… then stilled.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach out.
He just stood there, gripping the towel a little too tightly in his hand, lips pressed in a thin, tense line.
It wasn’t anger. It was heartbreak. Because you hadn’t yelled. You hadn’t pushed him away.
You had simply… chosen not to need him.
And that, to Caleb, was worse than any punishment.
You stirred your tea in silence. Behind you, Caleb still hadn’t moved.
You could feel it. His desire to speak, to say something, anything. You could sense the weight of his breathing. The urge caught between his teeth to undo everything he’d done last night. To undo you, cold, silent, distant.
You turned around slowly, cup in hand, and met his gaze for just a second.
It was enough. Enough to see how exhausted he was.
Rigid shoulders, like he no longer knew how to stand without your presence to keep him balanced. The dish towel twisted in his hand, as though he was holding himself together by a thread.
You walked into the living room.
Sat on the couch with calm, deliberate movements. Crossed your legs, adjusted the strap of your top as it slipped off your shoulder. Brought the cup to your lips and blew gently on the steam. Every gesture, controlled, calculated.
You didn’t raise your voice. But everything in your silence weighed heavily.
Caleb still hadn’t moved.
He looked torn between running to you… and the fear that if he stepped too fast, too wrong, you’d vanish.
The electric kettle still hummed behind him, persistent. He didn’t notice.
You turned your gaze to the window, letting the morning sunlight kiss your face. Pretending the ache in your chest wasn’t there. That it didn’t hurt. That you didn’t remember every word he spoke last night.
And then, like a stone dropped into a still lake, you spoke:
“I’m taking the afternoon train to Linkon.”
Your voice came out low. Not sharp. Not angry. Just quiet. As if you didn’t want to cause more pain than necessary.
But it hurt. Because it wasn’t an announcement.
His knuckles went white around the dish towel. The kettle behind him kept hissing, muted beneath the sudden pressure crushing his chest.
“I thought…” His voice cracked.
You didn’t answer. You simply took a sip of your tea.
Then he let the towel fall. The soft, dry thud of it hitting the floor cut through the silence like thunder.
“You’re just going to leave?” he asked, breathless. “Without… talking to me? Without letting me fix this?”
You kept your eyes on the cup in your hands.
“You already said everything you needed to say last night, Caleb.”
“No! I didn’t!” He stepped forward, quick but careful, like he was afraid of scaring you off. “I was an idiot. I know that. But I never… never meant to hurt you.”
You finally looked up. And what he saw in your eyes wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. And that hurt so much more.
Caleb flinched. The words struck deeper than any scream, deeper than any tears.
His body sagged, as if the weight of guilt had finally caught up with him.
Then, slowly, he knelt in front of you.
His knees touched the floor, hands trembling as they came to rest on your thigh, barely touching, reverent, as if you were something sacred about to slip from his grasp.
“Don’t go,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not with that look in your eyes.”
You blinked, surprised by how broken his voice sounded.
“I can take anything,” he said, swallowing hard. “Anything but you hating me.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, breathing deep, clearly fighting not to fall apart.
“If you walk out now… if you leave feeling like this… I don’t know what will be left of me.”
His hand moved to yours, tentative. Asking for permission. Begging for one more chance to exist in your world.
“Stay,” he whispered. “Just one more day. Just let me try. I’m begging you.”
You didn’t speak right away. Your eyes dropped to the hand he held out, trembling, waiting. Then to his face, so desperately unsure. For a moment, you just… breathed.
And then, slowly, your fingers curled around his. The cup of tea, now completely forgotten beside you.
It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something.
You looked at him, voice quiet but steady.
“…I’m not leaving. Not today.” Caleb closed his eyes again.
And for the first time since last night, he let himself breathe.
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