CW: Suicide, Emotional Distress
[This story explores sensitive topics, including self-harm and loss. Proceed with caution if these themes may affect you.
I bought the house the way I start most paintings—without a plan, only the need for stillness and the kind of space the city never offered.
It sat on the outskirts of Skyhaven, surrounded by trees and wrapped in weeds—just the right place for a man like me, trying to disappear into canvas and paint.
The house looked like a forgotten masterpiece—its colors dulled by age, yet its frame held firm against time. It was like an artwork that was abandoned by its artist, patiently waiting for them to return.
"Are you sure you’ll be fine here?" Thomas asked, his expression tightening with something unspoken as he glanced at the house I’d chosen to paint my pieces for the next exhibition, and then shifted his gaze back at me.
"I'm fine. You should go back to Linkon," I said, brushing him off as I walked around the car to unload the last of my things.
I had only a suitcase, a mattress, and an easel—the same one I’d asked Thomas to assemble a few days before the move. It wasn’t much. But it was enough. Since I'm only here to paint. Nothing else.
Thomas gave me one last look before he headed to his car and drove away. For a moment, I lingered by the door. The house was filling me with strange warmth. I tucked my long hair behind my ear as a gentle breeze danced over me—like a quiet voice welcoming me home.
The house echoed with emptiness the moment I stepped inside—but not the kind of emptiness that's unfamiliar. I'm used to silence. To voids. Yet somehow, this silence curled around my heart like a cold hand.
Sleep never came on me when night comes. The streetlight leaked through the blinds, sketching faint lines over the floor, like an unfinished brush strokes. Maybe it was the sudden change of the place so I can't sleep. But deep down, It felt like I was waiting—for someone, or something to appear.
Still unable to sleep, I roamed the house like a ghost in my own skin. I moved slowly through the rooms—familiarizing myself. The cool night air brushed against me like a quiet breath as I paused by one of the windows, watching the trees outside sway gently in the dark, their branches whispering secrets I couldn't hear.
I stayed there for a while. Strange as it sounds, the silence—the stillness—was comforting. Not the kind that felt empty, but the kind that lets you breathe. Then something fell upstairs. A soft thud—not loud, but enough to break the silence and pull a slight frown from me.
I glanced toward the ceiling, then up the hall where I hadn’t looked too closely before. There, at the very end, was a narrow staircase—wooden, steep, and clearly old—leading to the attic.
I pulled my cardigan tighter around my frame and made my way toward it, each step creaking beneath my weight like a tired sigh. At the top, I found a small door, low and warped at the edges. I pushed it open. Dust greeted me first. Cold air, stale and undisturbed. I squinted against the dimness as my eyes adjusted.
It was full of boxes and stacked crates, furniture covered in old white sheets, books, frames, and canvas—so many things left behind. No signs of a rodent, no sign of a break-in. Just a space frozen in someone else’s time.
And the faintest pull in my chest, like I was standing in the middle of something that used to mean to someone.
I sorted through it slowly, checking each box until my gaze caught a faded label: “Lemurian’s Treasure."
Curiosity got the better of me upon reading the name of my favorite civilization that was long gone now. And opened it.
Inside, tucked neatly beneath a layer of dust, was a VHS tape—its label blank, worn at the edges. Beside it were bundles of old letters, yellowed with age, tied loosely with string. Underneath those were sketches—some rough, others detailed—all of the same person.
He looked familiar in that strange, aching way—like someone you might’ve met in a dream and forgot as soon as you woke up.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my fingers brushed the edge of the tape.
I turned sharply, gaze snapping toward the sound, only to notice the small attic window creaking open, just barely, like it had been nudged by the wind.
I crossed the room, reached out, and closed it gently—just in time for the first drops of rain to tap against the glass. It came all at once after that—a sudden downpour that felt like it waited for an eternity to fall.
I immediately left the attic the chill of the dusty air still clinging to my skin, as I hurried down the narrow stairs to the living room. My heart skipped a beat as I scanned the huge window—thankfully, it was tightly shut. The canvases lined up against the wall were safe and dry. Relief washed over me, and I slumped onto the long, worn couch, and let out a long, tired sigh. The weight of the day is settling heavy on my chest.
That’s when I realized—I was still holding the VHS tape, its cold plastic smoothed against my palm.
My eyes lingered on the tape for a long moment, weighing what to do with it. The realtor never mentioned anything about the old owner—no name, no story. Even if I wanted to return it, there was no one to give it back to.
Maybe it’s just some forgotten home movies, I told myself. Or…
A part of me hesitated. What if it was something more? Something intimate—meant to be kept hidden, locked away like a secret no one else was supposed to see?
The thought made me uneasy. But curiosity? Curiosity was a different kind of weight. It pulled me in. I could put it away, ignore it. But seeing the old player in front of me was like a silent beckoning—the tape urging me to press play.
The screen flickered to life with a grainy glow, the familiar hum of the old player filling the silent room. Static gave way to a dimly lit music room, the kind of place where echoes linger and memories settle.
A young man sat at the piano, his long, slender fingers moving gently over the keys. The song was unfamiliar, but it carried a nostalgic weight—like a forgotten memory trying to find its way back to me. The camera angle was careful, almost shy—as if the person behind the lens didn't want to disturb him.
I thought as the camera zoomed in on the young man’s side profile. I frowned, pausing the video for a moment. Without thinking, I hurried upstairs to the attic and grabbed the sketches I’d found earlier.
A chuckle escaped me when I realized—the man in the video and the one in these sketches were the same. I returned downstairs, holding the sketches in one hand, and resumed watching the tape.
I held my breath as the music filled the air in that flickering image. Then the young man looked up—eyes sharp, searching—and then frowned.
His voice was deep, yet familiar. As if I’d heard it somewhere before.
Suddenly, the screen jerked violently. The figure behind the camera shifted, stepping away quickly. The screen went dark for a moment, then flickered back on.
This time, it was a bright afternoon. The same guy from the first clip was outside, running across a soccer field. His smile was as bright as summer, and I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him laugh.
The angle was distant and shaky—like it was filmed from somewhere high up, probably a classroom window. He moved with effortless grace, sunlight catching the strands of his hair as he chased the ball. Then, as if sensing that someone was watching him, he glanced up toward the camera and smiled softly. But the person behind the lens quickly hid, keeping out of sight.
A soft chuckle escaped my lips—but it was cut short as I realized it was the first time something had made me laugh genuinely in a long while. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed with true happiness—not the practiced smile I wore for business, but the kind that comes from deep inside.
My thoughts came to a halt when the next scene flickered onto the screen. This one felt different from the first two. The camera wasn’t pointed at someone’s face this time—but at a chest, close and steady, focusing on a school uniform. The name tag caught the light just enough to make the letters legible.
Caleb, huh. What a nice name.
Then came his voice—deep, warm, unmistakably fond. It was him—the same guy from the earlier clips. That’s when it hit me.
This film wasn’t just about him.
"It should be you who’s being filmed... for having such a pretty face."
The camera shifted slightly, the frame wobbling—as if the person behind it had fumbled or shyly looked away. But when it steadied again, it pointed straight at Caleb’s face.
And for some reason, my heart thudded.
It was the first time I was truly seeing him—his features, his eyes, that small smile that didn’t quite reach his lips. He stirred something in me. Something I couldn’t name. Something I didn’t expect.
And just like that, I felt it—like I had wandered into something sacred. A memory not meant for strangers.
And so, I stopped watching. Out of guilt, maybe?
I turned the TV off, the screen fading to black with a soft click, and sat there for a moment—hands still, heart oddly restless. Then I stood, needing to do something—anything—to quiet the noise building inside me. I picked up a brush. If I couldn’t understand what I was feeling, maybe I could paint it instead.
“Fuck!” I exclaimed, exasperated, as I tore through the failed canvas. The rip echoed louder than I expected.
It had been a week since I moved in. But every single piece I created felt like a failure—a blur of color and form with no meaning behind it.
No soul. Nothing I painted spoke to me. Nothing felt real. Just strokes. Just noise.
My gaze snapped to the tape sitting in the corner—untouched but weighty, as if it was waiting for me to pick it up again. To watch it. I wanted to believe that it was that tape’s fault why I couldn't paint. Ever since I watched it—unfinished—I couldn’t stop dreaming about him. Caleb.
It was too vivid to ignore. So vivid that I stopped taking sleeping pills just so I would stay awake. So I wouldn’t see him in my dreams—often smiling, rarely mad, and...
I groaned and shut my eyes, trying to stop myself from even thinking about that sinful dream I once had about him. For Pete’s sake! I couldn’t even get hard for that actress who tried to seduce me at an exhibit, yet—
I slammed the paintbrush down and marched to the mini fridge Thomas brought me yesterday, stocked full of drinks. My eyes locked on a bottle of wine. Without hesitation, I pulled it out, grabbed a glass, and dropped myself onto the couch.
I drank. Once. Twice. Then again.
The sharp bitterness bled down my throat, but I didn’t care. My eyes were fixed on that damn tape in the corner of the room, still where I’d left it—still waiting.
I hated how much it pulled at me. I hated how the idea of him—of Caleb—had carved out a place in my thoughts without permission. And yet, Here I am, glass in hand, tempted to look at someone’s memories like a madman.
I downed what was left in the glass, stood up, and walked over to play it again. If I was going to lose sleep over a ghost, I might as well face him.
The screen flickered back to life, right where I’d stopped watching—his face. Dark brown hair, purple eyes, a playful smile that made it hard to look away. Like a golden retriever—bright, warm, and far too charming for his own good.
He looked straight into the camera, and though I knew it wasn’t meant for me, something in my chest tightened anyway. He took the camera, but the film never showed the other person’s face. Instead, it cut to the next scene.
Caleb was lying on a couch, eyes fixed on the lens, all smiles as he held up a book about planes.
["You’re still filming me? You’re unbelievable."]
He laughed, yet his cheeks flushed with a warmth that made it feel like the room itself softened. And so as my heart.
["What was that for anyway? You're not going somewhere far, right?"]
The person behind the camera said nothing. Just silence.
Caleb’s smile faltered. His expression shifted—more guarded, more serious.
He said softly, gaze lowering for a second before meeting the lens again.
["If you disappear one day, I won’t forgive you."]
The screen froze. I paused it—just for a moment—just so I could breathe. I stood up, grabbed another bottle of wine from the fridge, and drank straight from it.
Jealous of whoever it was that gaze belonged to—whoever held Caleb’s smile, his laughter, his eyes.
I didn’t even know this man. Caleb was just a face on a screen, a memory left behind in a box I wasn’t supposed to open. And yet... the way he looked at the camera—soft, warm, full of something I couldn’t name—it made my chest ache.
What kind of person was he looking at? What kind of love was strong enough to be caught on tape and still echo this loud?
I drank again, deeper this time, letting the wine burn its way down.
Was I envious of the one behind the camera... or the version of Caleb in front of it?
I laughed. A bitter, sarcastic sound.
"Really, Rafayel? Seriously?" I muttered to myself. "Why the hell do you feel like a third party in someone else’s memory?"
I sank back into the couch and hit play again.
The screen lit up with Caleb painting a wall, his sleeves rolled up, hair messy with effort. Boxes were scattered all over the floor.
From the way the space looked, I could tell it was this house. And with all those boxes… it felt like a beginning. A move-in. A life being built—shared—with whoever was behind the lens.
Now Caleb was in the kitchen, humming softly as he cooked something. He glanced back at the camera with a smile that was far too sweet for someone like me to be witnessing.
["When are you going to get tired of filming me?"]
He asked, voice teasing, affectionate. Then he reached out and covered the lens, the frame tilting slightly—as if he’d pulled the one behind the camera closer.
I heard them laugh softly. Then kisses. Gentle. Familiar. Followed by a whispered confession.
["At the same time, I don't want you to ever get tired of me, Ayel."]
That was the first time I heard him say the other person’s name.
Of all names. Why did that person have the last four letters of mine?
The next scene made me nearly drop the bottle of wine that I'm holding.
Caleb appeared on the screen—bare-chested, flushed, skin glistening with sweat. His hair was messy, lips parted, his gaze dark and heavy with want. A look that could melt anyone on the receiving end.
["Are you seriously going to film me like this?"]
He asked, laughing breathlessly as he shifted closer—lower—between the legs of whoever was behind the camera.
The camera tipped slightly, but not enough to hide what was happening. The sounds, the movements. I blinked, as if I’d seen it wrong—like the grain of the film had tricked me somehow. But no. Caleb’s mouth was wrapped around that person’s hard cock, his gaze never leaving the lens.
But in his eyes, I saw something that made my heart ache—no, yearn. It wasn't just affection. It was desire. Raw and consuming.
My fingers curled tightly around the neck of the bottle, knuckles white, chest tight. I shouldn’t be feeling this. Jealousy, confusion, heat curling in my gut like a flame I didn’t know how to put out.
He wasn’t mine. He never was. He was a stranger on a screen. So why did it feel like he’d just touched something inside me that no one else ever had?
And then I saw it. A masculine hand. Broad. Veined. Tensed with restraint as it reached for his face—caressing Caleb’s cheek with a gentleness that felt almost reverent. Caleb withdrew from pleasuring him, only to press a kiss against those fingers—slow, lingering... like he was worshipping a god’s hand.
["I want to stay like this... memorize every inch of you."]
Caleb whispered softly, pulling away just enough to settle between the man's thighs.
["You don’t even realize what you do to me."]
He added, voice breathless—eyes dazed with affection, like he was drunk on more than just desire.
Then he moved—slow, deliberate, almost solemn. A kind of gentleness that wasn’t just about pleasure, but something deeper. Something far past desire—quiet, raw, and utterly devoted. If love had a language beyond words, this was it—a worship made flesh.
And then he took the camera and threw it onto the rug-covered floor. Their silhouettes danced on the wall, blurred and indistinct, while all I could hear were the sounds they made.
It wasn’t indecent. The soft gasps, the sweet whispers of Ayel’s name rolling off Caleb’s lips—his voice like a symphony. A delicate hymn to desire.
It was too much, but I couldn’t look away from the screen. Though all I saw were their shadows, I felt it—the love, the respect, and the devotion Caleb held for that man.
The screen flickered, revealing the sprawling cityscape of Skyhaven bathed in twilight. Then it shifted to Caleb, kneeling in front of the camera, a small velvet box clutched in his hands.
He said, eyes glistening.
[“I practiced this a dozen times, but now that I’m doing it, I’m freaking out.”]
The screen shook slightly, as if Ayel was doing his best to stay calm behind the lens.
"This may sound overrated, and I might get an F for originality." He took a deep breath and stared at the lens.
[“When I realized my feelings, I was terrified. Terrified of the version of myself once I let it all out. I’m scared that I might end up clipping your wings—hindering the life you’ve set your path to.”]
It was the first time I heard the vulnerability in his voice. And for some reason, I found myself crying.
[“Loving you makes me afraid—but it also makes me alive—like I’m standing on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful all at once.”]
He let out a half-hearted chuckle, trembling just slightly.
And it made me sob even harder. I don’t know why my heart was shattering with just those words. It wasn’t meant for me. His words weren’t meant for me. But I could feel it in my bones. Every word. Every single word he uttered.
[“The version of me who loves you this much is someone I’m still trying to understand—and it might take me a lifetime unraveling it, so...”]
He sighed and smiled lovingly.
[“Will you give me your lifetime as well, Ayel?”]
I didn’t hear Ayel speak, but the way he offered his hand was enough to know his answer. Caleb immediately stood and pulled the person behind the lens into a tight embrace. The camera shook with the movement, tilting down to show only their shoes. And in the background, Caleb’s voice mingled with Ayel’s soft sobs.
[“You’re my home. The reason I keep waking up every day,”]
Caleb whispered lovingly.
[“I won’t stop you from chasing your dreams. I’d give you everything you ask for—even my life. But please, promise me one thing.”]
The screen flickered to black.
I paused the tape, my nose stuffy from crying. The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe, and for a moment, I just sat there—lost in the weight of his words, feeling the ache settle deep inside me
“Fuck,” I groaned, wiping tears that felt like a dam breaking—I couldn’t stop them from falling.
I don’t know him—them. But they opened a door inside me I never knew existed.
My eyes shifted to the canvas in the corner of the room—unfinished, untouched. I had started it without thinking, guided by instinct, but never dared to finish it.
Because it felt like a sin.
I hated myself for wanting someone I shouldn’t. But the more I watched the tape, the deeper I fell—like slipping into an abyss I couldn’t climb out of.
It’s crazy to fall for someone I’ve never met in my life. But it’s even crazier to want him more now than I did when I first dreamed of him.
I planned to stop there—to not know more. My mind told me to. But my stupid heart wanted otherwise. It wanted to see more of him. To hear his voice again. As if the tape was meant for me to watch.
The next clips were just full of Caleb—some shots stolen, some intentional. He was full of life. Bright. A ray of sunshine in motion.
Until the screen flickered to a new scene.
This time, no one was holding the camera. It was set up in the living room—the same exact spot where the player sat now. The whole space was framed in still silence. Caleb walked out of a room, his footsteps heavy. His voice—angry, but more than that, wounded.
[“Why is breaking up always your answer whenever you’re faced with tough choices? When things stop being easy, you just... run.”]
His voice cracked, raw and trembling.
[“You throw the word around like I’m disposable—like we never mattered.”]
But Caleb wasn’t done. He paced the room, hands in his hair, eyes filled with pain.
[“I understand. You have to leave. That it might take you a long time before you come back. I get it. And I told you—I can come with you! I want to be with you! I want to stay with you, Ayel. Through everything. Through your doubts, your silence, your goddamn cold days—because I love you! But you… you want to break up with me just because I’m choosing you over my job? Over my dream?”]
A quiet rustle came from off-screen—the sound of someone stepping forward. Footsteps as heavy as the air around them.
[“This is why I’m leaving you.”]
I froze. I knew that voice.
And then he appeared—a man with wolf-cut purple hair and fair skin dotted with small beauty marks—the same face I’d seen in the mirror every single waking day of my life.
[“Why would you choose me over your dream?”]
I gasped, hands flying to my mouth to muffle the cries. I shook my head, as if trying to convince myself it wasn’t real.
[“I told you to wait for me. Three years is just a short time. You don’t have to sacrifice your dreams just to be with me. But you don’t listen—you always do whatever you want—”]
Caleb cut me off—the younger version of me. The version of me I have no memories of.
[“I’d do anything. Everything. Just to be with you.”]
I saw it—the coldness, the detachment—in my own expression.
[“Your love is suffocating.”]
Caleb’s eyes widened, jaw clenched, as my younger self sighed.
[“Why can’t you wait for three years? I will come back. We can always see each other. Call each other. Will you die if I’m not by your side?”]
I shook my head—a silent cry trapped within me—as memories began pouring in, relentless and overwhelming, like the downpour outside that I hadn’t even noticed.
"I'm not asking you to stay," Caleb said in a low voice, eyes searching mine. "I'm simply asking that you take me along with you."
I blinked, exhaustion weighing down my limbs and heart alike. "Why? Your life is here in Skyhaven. Why would I take you to—"
I trailed off, the words tasting bitter. The weight of everything—the love, the pain, the endless fights—pressed on me until I could hardly breathe.
I swallowed hard, my voice trembling but steady. "You know what? Sometimes... I wish I never met you."
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
"It's too much," I admitted, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "Loving you has been the hardest thing I've ever done."
The film played out exactly as I remembered.
Caleb, stunned, but said nothing. My younger self turned and walked away, leaving Caleb alone in the vast living room—like a melting candle, fragile and slowly dissolving. Quiet sobs echoed through the empty space.
Then the screen went black.
I fell to my knees, the sobs wracking my body uncontrollably. The face in the video, the voice, the love, the pain—it was all mine. I had forgotten everything.
Memories I buried deep clawed their way to the surface. A flashback—sharp and haunting—played in my mind.
After the fight, I locked myself away in my studio for an entire week, ignoring every call and message from Caleb. I wanted to avoid the pain, the confrontation. Until one day, the silence was absolute.
When I finally came home, I found him—Caleb—lying lifeless in our bed. The only thing beside him was a faded photo of us from when we first got together.
That moment shattered me.
Consumed by guilt and grief, I abandoned my art. The brushes and canvases gathered dust as I spiraled deeper into despair. And in a desperate attempt to escape the torment, I overdosed on pills. When I woke up. I remember nothing. The doctors called it a psychological block. But the pain was still there, even when I couldn’t remember why I was hurting.
But slowly, painting pulled me back—a fragile thread to life, the only thing that made me feel alive again.
As I sat trembling on the floor, the screen crackled once more.
Caleb, now holding the camera, was filming himself. His eyes were red, but he was smiling.
["Hey, Rafayel… if you’re watching this... I guess you found the tape."]
And now it all made sense to me, why this was meant for me to see. I may be the one behind the lens all the time, but I was never the one who made every clip into a film.
["I’ve been thinking a lot since you stopped coming home."]
He said, his voice uneven, like a thread fraying at the ends. And then Caleb laughed—painfully.
["You asked me once if I’d die if I wasn’t by your side."]
["Honestly? Yeah. Just thinking of you being far from me for three damn years... I just wanted to end my life."]
Then, with a soft, breathless chuckle, he added,
["But I know you’d hate me if I did that."]
My hands shook. My breath hitched.I grabbed the remote.
["But I know you’d hate me if I did that."]
["But I know you’d hate me if I did that."]
And again. Until it sank into the marrow of my bones.
["But I know you’d hate me if I did that."]
He didn’t take his life. He just… didn’t wake up.
Tears streamed freely, but for the first time, the guilt—that thing that wrapped itself around my chest for years—slowly began to loosen. Like it, too, had been waiting for the truth.
[“So… come back to my side quickly, alright?”]
Caleb smiled—the same soft, foolishly loving smile I used to wake up to.
He paused. His voice dropped to a whisper.
[“And please… take it back.”]
He looked directly at the lens, eyes glassy, begging.
[“That you wish you never met me.”]
And I nodded, sobbing—uncontrollably, desperately. I nodded like he could see me. And I swear... he smiled as if he did see me.
["Always remember this...Even when you weren’t around, you were still the only place I wanted to be. Will it be too much to ask if you think that way too while we're apart?"]
Caleb's smile didn't fade—as if patiently waiting for a reply.
“No,” I answered, smiling—not with sorrow, but with something close to peace.
And then the screen went black, letters forming words—like a final vow.
[You're the ache and calm in my chest—the only chaos I'd gladly choose again.]
The gallery buzzed with whispers as Thomas scanned the room. Rafayel’s final exhibition had arrived in Skyhaven.
Yet, the familiar energy was replaced by something else. The entire space was dominated by a solitary image.
Once forgotten, now immortalized.
The name of the exhibition echoed softly in the air.
