Life with Sylus
Extras
Before his sweetie VS after his sweetie
Sylus Before His Sweetie
The way he spoke was clipped, efficient, and precise.
“Report. Time. Deadline.”
Three words, one tone. His voice always carried that quiet authority. People listened, obeyed, and left.
He didn’t talk, he instructed. No warmth, no teasing, just silence after every statement.
When someone once asked if he ever got lonely, he said flatly, “Loneliness is a distraction.”
He didn’t believe in softness, it made people vulnerable, and Sylus never allowed that.
His home was pure symmetry — clean, sharp, calculated.
Every book aligned, every pen placed exactly parallel. He’d walk through his apartment like a ghost, not even the sound of footsteps echoed long.
His only interaction with the world outside? Work calls and online deliveries.
The house looked like a photograph beautiful, but lifeless.
He spoke little, and only when necessary.
His replies were always measured.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
The kind of tone that made people hesitate before speaking to him again. He wasn’t rude — just distant. The kind of distant that built walls without meaning to.
He didn’t joke.
Sarcasm? Yes. Humor? No.
Someone once made a joke during a meeting, and Sylus just blinked and said, “Are you done wasting my time?”
He wasn’t cruel — he just didn’t understand why people laughed when the world was so… fragile.
His nights were long and cold.
He’d sit by the large window, city lights reflecting in his eyes, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him.
The kind of man who looked like he was waiting for something though he’d never admit it.
He didn’t believe in comfort.
The couch was leather, the bed firm, the lighting white and sterile. He told himself, “Comfort slows progress.”
But deep down, he didn’t know what comfort even felt like.
He disliked interruptions.
If someone texted him during work, he ignored it. Calls? Straight to voicemail.
He once said, “The only time I want someone to call is if something’s on fire.”
He never used nicknames.
If he addressed anyone, it was by name or sometimes, not at all.
“Good work, Daniels.”
“Close the door.”
“Leave the file.”
He didn’t believe in names with affection. They created attachment, and Sylus didn’t do attachment.
He moved through life like a shadow.
Efficient, unseen, untouchable. The kind of man people admired from afar but feared to approach.
No one knew what his favorite anything was, because he didn’t have one.
He didn’t rest.
He’d stay awake until the sky turned gray, not because of insomnia but because he didn’t see the point of closing his eyes.
“Sleep is overrated,”
He’d mutter, staring at reports instead of stars.
He never asked, “How was your day?”
He didn’t know how to. Connection felt… foreign.
If someone tried small talk, he’d cut it short with,
“Let’s stay on topic.”
His world was grayscale.
No laughter, no sound of footsteps rushing to greet him, no warmth in the air.
He lived in a museum of his own making — perfect, empty, and echoing.
He didn’t believe in love.
“Love is an illusion,” he once said flatly to a colleague. “A chemical manipulation for dependency.”
He didn’t like being touched.
A hand on his shoulder made him stiffen. Hugs? Foreign.
He convinced himself it was better that way.
He existed, not lived.
And for a man who had everything — intelligence, wealth, control but he had no one.
No one to say good morning.
No one to say goodnight.
No one to tell him that maybe, just maybe, life could be softer.
Sylus After His Sweetie
His tone changed first.
Gone was the cold precision — replaced by teasing drawls and quiet chuckles.
“Morning, sweetie,”
Became his favorite phrase, the one he said with that low, lazy voice that made your heart melt.
When you teased him, he’d smirk and say, “Careful, sweetheart. You’re getting brave.”
His once-silent home now had sound.
The faint hum of music, your laughter from the kitchen, his voice asking,
"Did you steal my hoodie again"
It wasn’t an empty echo anymore — it was alive.
His workspace became shared space.
Your coffee cup beside his files, your sticky notes on his monitor: “Eat lunch, genius.”
He’d roll his eyes but never move them.
“You’re impossible,” He’d mumbles smiling.
He started to laugh.
Really laugh. That kind of quiet, surprised laugh he’d try to hide behind a hand.
You’d catch him and grin, “You’re laughing, Sylus.”
And he’d reply, “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
He learned warmth... and color.
You brought soft blankets, scented candles, and fairy lights. He protested at first:
“This place isn’t a dorm room.”
“It’s cozy, Sylus.”
…Now he lights the candles himself when you’re not home.
He started eating real food again.
Cooking with you meant burnt pancakes, laughter, and you standing on tiptoe to wipe sauce off his jaw.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he’d tease, “you’re distracting the chef.”
He fell in love with your chaos.
Your books on the coffee table, your socks mismatched, your humming in the shower, everything he once would’ve called mess now felt like home.
He became protective — but gentle.
Not the cold, controlling kind. The kind where he’d tuck your hair behind your ear and say,
“Text me when you get there, alright?”
Or pull you close in a crowd and whisper, “Stay near me, sweetie.”
He learned to rest.
You’d find him asleep on the couch with you in his arms, both wrapped in a blanket, his usual tension gone.
If you moved, he’d mumble half-asleep, “Don’t go yet.”
He began to talk about feelings awkwardly, but sincerely.
“You make things… quieter,” he once said, struggling to find the words.
You smiled, “You mean peaceful?”
“Yeah. That.”
He started marking time differently.
He never said it out loud, but his calendar did. He had reminders like “Her birthday,” “Anniversary,” “Pick up her favorite snacks.”
He teases more — but it’s laced with affection.
“Sweetie, if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll forget what I was doing.”
Or when you pout, “That’s not going to work on me.”
It always works on him.
He found his favorite sound.
Not music, not silence, but your laughter.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he’d murmur. “You make the world seem like it’s worth staying in.”
He learned softness.
Late-night cuddles. His fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. Quiet “I missed you”s that he never used to say.
“You’re everything I didn’t know I needed,”
He admitted once, barely above a whisper.
He started living.
Not surviving. Not existing. Living.
His world wasn’t black and white anymore. It was full of color, noise, warmth, and you.
“You ruined my peace,” he’d say, smirking.
You’d laugh, “You love it.”
“Yeah,” he’d whisper, kissing your forehead, “I do, sweetie. I really do.”
Master List of Delusions
