To love and be loved.
im sorry, im feeling ina really bad and tired out mood and health is shit too, ily all
It was happening again.
That hollow, crushing weight in your chest, pressing down like an invisible force, making it hard to breathe. Your fingers twitched against your phone screen, scanning over messages that never existed, notifications that never arrived. The group chat was active, laughter spilling through texts and voice notes, but none of it was meant for you.
They never meant for you.
You always knew, didnāt you? That you were just... there. Not chosen. Not loved. Not the first thought in someoneās mind. Not the reason someoneās day brightened. You loved so loudly, so freely, with open arms and warm words, making sure people felt seen, felt understood, felt cared for. And yet, no one did the same for you.
No one ever did.
You felt pathetic, scrolling through old conversations, searching for a time someone reached out firstājust once, just to prove yourself wrong. But there was nothing. You always sent the first text, made the first move, extended the first olive branch. And the moment you stopped, silence followed.
Did anyone even notice when you werenāt there? Did anyone miss your presence, your thoughts, your voice?
Your chest tightened, a suffocating ache spreading through your ribs. It wasnāt just loneliness. It was being unwanted, unnoticed. It was knowing that if you disappeared, the world would keep turning, conversations would flow without pause, plans would be made without an empty space where you should be.
Your hands trembled as you reached for your sketchbookāthe one place where your emotions spilled freely, where you didnāt have to filter yourself, where you could pour every unsaid word into lines and colors. You flipped through the pages, past unfinished drawings and abandoned ideas, each one proof of something you once loved. But even that felt empty now. No one ever cared enough to ask about your work, to truly see you in it. They praised in passing, but never lingered. Never tried to understand the meaning behind your strokes, your thoughts, your world.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
God, you were tired. Tired of fighting for a place in peopleās lives. Tired of making excuses for why they never stayed, why they never chose you. Tired of pretending it didnāt hurt when you saw them effortlessly love others in the way you longed to be loved.
Your breath hitched, and before you could stop it, a choked sob ripped from your throat. The dam broke. Tears spilled, hot and relentless, sliding down your cheeks as silent cries wracked your body. You curled into yourself, as if you could make yourself disappear, as if maybeājust maybeāif you were small enough, you wouldnāt have to feel this anymore.
You just wanted to be loved. Truly, wholly, unconditionally. Was that too much to fucking ask?
Phainon frowned as he glanced at his phone, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. Something felt off. He wasnāt the type to jump to conclusions, but the silence from you wasnāt normal. Not for you.
You were the kind of person who always reached out first, who made sure others felt included, who sent the little messages that reminded people they werenāt alone. And now? Now you were the one who had gone quiet.
He hated it.
His cerulean blue eyes flickered to the time. It was late, but that didnāt matter. You mattered. And if something was wrongāno, when something was wrongāhe wasnāt going to sit around and wait for you to break apart in silence.
Grabbing his jacket, he stepped outside, the cool air biting against his skin. He knew where youād be. He always paid attention, even when you thought no one did. He noticed the way you curled into yourself when you were overwhelmed, the way your hands twitched when you were holding back words. He noticed the way you hesitated before speaking sometimes, as if waiting for permission to exist.
It pissed him off.
You didnāt need permission. You deserved the world, and it enraged him that no one had ever made sure you knew that.
His pace quickened. ā„ ā„ ā„ ā„ ā„ The roar of the engine ripped through the night as Phainon tore through the streets, his grip on the handlebars tight enough to make his knuckles ache. He was going too fastārecklessly fastābut he didnāt care. His thoughts were drowning in a sea of worry, panic clawing at his chest like something feral, something desperate.
You were alone right now. Crying, maybe. Curled up, trembling, falling apart in silence because no one ever fucking cared enough to notice.
Except he did.
Phainonās jaw clenched as the streetlights blurred past him, the wind whipping through his already messy hair. His heart pounded against his ribs, an unrelenting beat that matched the storm brewing inside him. He wasnāt just worriedāhe was furious. Not at you. Never at you.
At them.
At every person who let you feel this way. At every so-called friend who only remembered you when it was convenient. At every thoughtless comment that chipped away at you over the years, carving the scars he knew you kept hidden behind soft smiles and deflected jokes.
You gave so much of yourselfāyour time, your love, your patienceāonly to be met with indifference. And now, you were breaking, and no one was there to catch you.
No one except him.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe, to focus. He needed to get to you. He needed to see you, to wrap his arms around you and pull you into his chest and hold you so tightly youād have no choice but to feel how much you mattered.
He needed to tell you that you werenāt invisible, that your absence left a gaping hole whether people admitted it or not. That he saw you, truly saw you, in a way no one else ever had.
His fingers flexed on the throttle, his mind racing as fast as his bike. He didnāt care if he was breaking the speed limit. He didnāt care if his phone buzzed with more unanswered texts. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting to you before you drowned in that loneliness you tried so hard to hide.
The water is cold.
It clings to your clothes, soaking through fabric, seeping into your skin, curling against your bones. The weight of it drags you down, makes your limbs heavy, makes your chest feel tight. You stare up at the surface, the way the light bends and warps above, refracting in endless, shifting shapes that donāt quite make sense.
You wish you could stay here.
Itās quiet.
No oneās looking. No oneās expecting anything. No oneās demanding that you be something more, something better, something worth noticing.
A deep, aching sigh rumbles from your chest, lost in the water before it can ever reach the air. You shut your eyes. For a moment, just a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is where you belong. That you arenāt meant to be elsewhere. That if you disappeared, no one would noticeābecause isnāt that the truth?
You always notice. You always care. You always reach out, always make people feel seen. You remember their favorite things, remember the way their voice lilts when theyāre excited, the little details that make them who they are. You make space for them in your heart, pour love into every crevice, remind them they matter, that they are loved, that they are wanted.
But when itās you?
Nothing.
No one.
They forget.They talk over you. They choose someone else. They never say your name first, never think of you the way you think of them. You could disappear, and life would move on like you were never there.
A bitter, sharp ache digs into your chest, spreading through your ribs like vines wrapping tight, constricting, pulling. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, hands curling weakly at your sides, nails digging into your own palms.
Why does it always have to be like this?
Why does no one ever choose you?
Your lungs burn. You open your eyes, and the ceiling light above you looks so distant. Too far away. Too out of reach.
Then, suddenlyā
A pair of hands yank you up.
You break the surface with a sharp gasp, water splashing everywhere, your vision blurry and unfocused. Before you can register whatās happening, youāre being pulled against something warm, strong, solid. Someoneās arms wrap around you, holding you tightly as if youāll disappear if they donāt.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
The voice is familiar. You blink, trying to clear your vision, and youāre met with cerulean blue eyesāwild with panic, anger, something too close to fear. Messy hair falls over his forehead, damp from the water. His grip on you tightens, his brows furrowing as he scans your face, as if trying to make sure youāre real.Phainon.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What could you even say? That you werenāt trying to drown? That you just wanted to feel weightless, just for a moment? That youāre tiredāso, so tiredāof feeling like you have to scream just to be heard?
He exhales sharply, his hands trembling slightly as he cups your face, tilting your head up so you canāt look away. "You scare me sometimes, you know that?" His voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "You act like no one cares about you, like no one would notice if you justā¦ faded away. But I do."
Your breath catches.
"I notice when youāre quiet. I notice when you smile but it doesnāt reach your eyes. I notice when you do everything you can to make people feel special but never let anyone do the same for you. And it drives me crazy because you deserveā" He stops, swallows hard, his grip on you tightening just slightly. "You deserve so much more than what people give you. And I swear, Iā"
His voice cracks, and it makes something deep inside you tremble. Your hands, still weak, clutch at his shirt, like if you let go, youāll sink again.
"I see you," he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. "I always have. And Iām not going to let you disappear."
Something breaks inside you. ā„ ā„ ā„ ā„ ā„
You donāt know when you start shaking.
Maybe itās the cold. Maybe itās the way his words sink into your chest like an anchor, heavier than anything youāve ever held. Maybe itās the way heās looking at youālike youāre something fragile, something precious, something he canāt afford to lose. His forehead stays pressed against yours, his breath warm against your damp skin, his grip steady, unwavering.
And itās too much.
Your throat tightens, a choked sound escaping before you can swallow it down. Phainonās arms tighten around you instantly, as if sensing the way your body trembles, as if heās the only thing keeping you from breaking apart entirely.
āHey, hey,ā he murmurs, voice softer now, laced with something raw. He shifts, adjusting his hold on you like heās afraid youāll slip away. āItās okay. Youāre okay.ā
You shake your head. āIām not.ā
The words spill out before you can stop them, hoarse and brittle, years of exhaustion layered beneath them. āIām not okay, Phainon. Iāā Your breath hitches, your fingers gripping his shirt tighter. āI donāt think I ever have been.ā
Phainon doesnāt speak right away. He just holds you closer, his heartbeat steady against your ear. Then, after a momentā
āI know.ā
Two simple words, yet they unravel you more than anything else. Because he does. He knows. He sees you in a way no one else ever has, in a way no one else has ever bothered to. Heās seen the cracks, the way you try to stitch yourself together with borrowed thread, the way you pour yourself out for others until thereās nothing left.
And he cares anyway.
The realization crashes over you, as overwhelming as the water had been, as suffocating as the silence youāve endured for so long. Your breath shudders, your body curling into his without thinking. He lets you. He doesnāt move, doesnāt pull away, doesnāt tell you to calm down or to stop crying. He just holds you, his hands firm, grounding you in a way you didnāt realize you needed.
āI justā¦ I try so hard,ā you whisper, voice barely audible, as if saying it out loud will make it hurt more. āI try so hard to be enough. To be someone worth staying for. But it never feels like it matters. It never feels like I matter.ā
Phainon lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tightening just slightly. āThatās not true.ā
You close your eyes. āIt feels true.ā
His hands move to cup your face again, tilting it up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. Thereās something fierce in his expression, something that burns through the chill in your bones. āThen let me prove you wrong.ā
Your lips part, but no words come out. He exhales, resting his forehead against yours again, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks, wiping away the dampness that lingers there.
āYou matter to me.ā
The words are whispered like a promise, like a vow carved into the fabric of the universe itself. āI notice you. I always have. And I swear, Iām not going to let you fade away.ā
A shuddering breath escapes you, something inside you fracturing, something loosening just enough for the weight on your chest to lessen, even if only a little.
The sobs tear through you, raw and jagged, shaking your entire body. The weight of everythingāevery unnoticed moment, every time you were left behind, every instance of being overlookedāpresses down on you all at once. It crashes over you like a wave, suffocating, unbearable. And yet, Phainon doesnāt let go.
His arms stay firm around you, holding you against his chest as if anchoring you to reality. His warmth seeps into you, contrasting the cold that still clings to your skin. His hands, so large and steady, stroke soothing circles along your back, threading through your wet hair, grounding you in the only way he knows how.
āItās okay,ā he murmurs, voice low, gentle. āLet it out. Iām here.ā
But you shake your head fiercely against his chest. He doesnāt understand. He canāt. āYou say that,ā you choke out, voice hoarse, ābut no one ever stays. No one ever means it.ā
His grip tightens. āI do.ā
You donātācanātābelieve him. How could you? When people always say they care but never act like it? When no one remembers you the way you remember them? When you give and give and give, and in return, you are met with nothing?
āThey donāt care,ā you whisper brokenly. āThey never have. No oneāno one chooses me. No one ever wants me.ā Your throat burns, chest caving in, as the words spill free, the truth youāve buried so deep finally exposed, laid bare before him.
The words hang in the air between you, raw and exposed, like an open wound. Your breath shudders, your fingers curling into Phainonās shirt, grasping at fabric like itās the only thing keeping you tethered to this moment.
You want to believe him.
You want to believe that someone, anyone, sees you. That someone caresāthat someone chooses you, not out of obligation or convenience, but because they want to.
But the belief wonāt take root. It withers before it can bloom, strangled by years of being overlooked, forgotten, pushed aside.
You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. āNo one ever stays, Phainon,ā you whisper, voice barely there, almost swallowed by the silence between your ragged breaths. āThey say they care, but they donāt. Not really. They forget. They move on. Iām neverāā Your throat tightens, cutting off the words.
You try to pull away, as if distance could protect you from the weight of your own emotions. As if pushing him away first will make it hurt less when he inevitably leaves.
But Phainon doesnāt let you go.
His arms only tighten around you, holding you steady, firm, unyielding. His warmth is steady, his heartbeat a solid, grounding rhythm against your ear. āI donāt know what theyāve done to make you feel like this,ā he murmurs, voice low, thick with something you donāt know how to name. āI donāt know why they never see you the way they should. But I do. I always have.ā
You want to scream that itās not true. That it canāt be. That no one ever does. That itās a lie, because if itās notāif heās telling the truthāthen that means all the loneliness, all the heartbreak, all the years of feeling unseen were not because you werenāt worth loving, but because they simply chose not to.
And that thought is unbearable.
Your hands tremble against his chest. āYouāll leave too,ā you whisper. Itās not a question. Itās a certainty. A truth youāve learned to accept.
Phainon exhales sharply, his hold on you shifting, just enough to pull back and cup your face in his hands. His fingers are calloused but gentle, thumbs brushing away the remnants of tears from your cheeks. Heās looking at you like youāre the only thing in the world. Like you matter.
Itās almost too much to bear.
āI wonāt.ā His voice is steady, but thereās something fierce beneath it, something angryānot at you, but at the world, at whoever made you feel this way. His cerulean blue eyes burn with frustration, with something close to desperation. āI donāt care how long it takes, or how many times you try to push me away. I see you. And Iām not going anywhere.ā
You canāt breathe.
Because you wantāgod, you wantāto believe him.
But belief is a dangerous thing. Hope is a dangerous thing.
And you donāt know if you can survive being let down again.
Phainon watches you carefully, like heās afraid youāll shatter if he lets go. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your damp cheeks, grounding you in his warmth. The raw emotion in his eyesāfrustration, concern, something deeper you canāt nameāmakes it hard to look at him.
You donāt know what to say.
You want to believe him. But the weight of every broken promise, every empty reassurance youāve ever been given, hangs heavy in your chest, making it impossible to accept his words without fear.
Phainon must sense it because he suddenly exhales, long and dramatic, and tilts his head. āYou know, I could let you go, but then Iād have to deal with the unbearable heartbreak of you running off again, and frankly, my fragile heart canāt handle that.ā
You blink at him.
His lips twitch like heās fighting a smirk. āI mean, you wouldnāt actually leave me here, right? Wet and abandoned? Cold? Drenched in misery?ā He gasps, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. āWhat if I catch a cold? What if I never recover? What if I waste away, never knowing joy again?ā
Despite yourself, your lips twitch. āYouād survive.ā
He leans in slightly, grinning. āWould I, though? Would I really? Think about itāsix-foot-two man, emotionally devastated, caught in the rain like the tragic protagonist of a sad indie filmādoomed to forever wander the earth, lamenting his lost happiness.ā
You sniff, trying to glare at him, but he looks so utterly ridiculousādrenched, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes comically wide with fake despairāthat a small, broken laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
Itās barely there, but Phainonās eyes immediately light up like you just handed him the universe.
āThere it is,ā he murmurs, his tone softer now, real. āThereās my girl.ā
Your breath catches. You shake your head, suddenly overwhelmed again, but this time itās differentāless crushing, less suffocating.
Phainon notices, and instead of letting go, he shifts, wrapping you fully in his arms again, resting his chin on the top of your head. He rocks you slightly, slow and soothing, like heās trying to physically shake the sadness from your bones.
āI meant what I said, you know,ā he murmurs. āIām not leaving. You can try to argue, you can push me away, but I will keep showing up. And, if necessary, I will annoy you into happiness.ā
You let out another small, exhausted laugh, but it turns into something softerāa quiet exhale, a weight loosening in your chest, just a little.
Phainon hums, pleased. āSee? Itās working already. Iām a genius.ā
You roll your eyes, but your hands stay curled into the fabric of his soaked hoodie, holding on. āYouāre something, alright.ā
He grins. āIāll take that as a win.ā
Phainon keeps you wrapped in his arms for a while longer, letting you take what you need. His warmth seeps into you, steady and constant, like a lifeline pulling you back to shore. He doesnāt let go until your breathing evens out, until the weight on your chest feels a little less unbearable.
Then, with one last squeeze, he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. āAlright, I have a very important question for you.ā
You blink up at him, still exhausted. āWhat?ā
His expression is far too serious for the words that follow. āWould you rather have soup or something absolutely terrible but made with love?ā
You stare. ā...What?ā
Phainon grins. āWell, the way I see it, I have two options here: I can make you something that actually tastes good, or I can attempt to cook something completely disastrous so you laugh at my pain and suffering. Either way, youāre eating.ā
A quiet chuckle escapes you, small but real. āIād rather not die of food poisoning, thanks.ā
āSoup it is, then.ā He stands up, stretching, before offering you a hand. āCome on. I have a foolproof recipe. Which is to say, I just throw things into a pot and hope for the best.ā
Despite everything, you take his hand. He helps you up gently, making sure you donāt stumble, then leads you to the kitchen. He moves around with ease, talking the whole timeālittle jokes, casual observations, the occasional exaggerated complaint about cutting vegetables (āWhy do onions exist? Who decided pain should be an ingredient?ā).
You sit on the counter, watching him, something warm settling in your chest. Heās so unwavering, so present. And even though your mind still fights against it, whispering doubts in the back of your head, a small part of you starts to believeājust a littleāthat maybe, maybe, you arenāt as invisible as you thought.
By the time the soup is done, you feel lighter. Phainon dramatically serves it with a flourish, making an absolute show of presenting you a bowl like a five-star chef. āFor mālady,ā he says, bowing. āMade with love and minimal effort.ā
You snort, shaking your head, but take the bowl. It smells good. Itās warm. Just like him.
You eat together, and for the first time in a long while, the silence between you isnāt heavy.
Later that night, when youāre bundled up on his couch, Phainon disappears for a suspiciously long moment before returning with a very specific item.
Two, actually.
Matching shark onesies.
You stare at him. āYouāre kidding.ā
He waggles his eyebrows, holding them up like theyāre a grand treasure. āOh, I never joke about important things like this.ā
āPhainonāā
āShark onesies,ā he repeats dramatically. āWith hoods. And tiny fins. And extra softness for maximum coziness.ā He winks. āMade just for you and your favorite six-foot-two idiot.ā
You press a hand to your face, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to fondness. āI donāt even have words for this.ā
āThatās the exhaustion speaking. Come on.ā He holds one out to you, shaking it slightly. āJust accept your fate.ā
Despite yourself, you take it.
Not long after, you find yourself standing there in an oversized, absurdly comfortable shark onesie, feeling ridiculous. Phainon, of course, is wearing his own, grinning like an absolute menace.
āYou look adorable,ā he announces.
You glare. āI look ridiculous.ā
āRidiculously adorable,ā he corrects, unbothered.
Before you can argue, he opens his arms in invitation. āAlright, cāmere.ā
You hesitate for only a second before exhaustion wins. With a quiet sigh, you step forward and jump into his arms, clinging onto him like a koala.
Phainon catches you easily, laughing as he holds you up. āWell, this is unexpected, but I wholeheartedly approve.ā
You bury your face in his shoulder, voice muffled. āThank you.ā
His grip tightens just slightly, warm and secure. āAlways.ā
And for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybeājust maybeāyou donāt have to carry everything alone.
