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About Love

Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other. part 2

Imagine Rafayel was told that love would come eventually. That if he stayed, that if he tried hard enough. If he softened at the edges and let someone in. It would bloom. He never believed in fairytales. But with you, he find it possible.

Imagine you weren't a spark. You were a slow burn. Steady, endearing and warm. It was not the kind of love that strikes like lightning, but the kind that stays even after the storm. So he stayed. He let you in.

Imagine you were never loud in your affection, but he felt it. In the way you picked up his brushes when he forgot, picked up strange yet beautiful shells just the way he liked it. The way you filled his silences without demanding answers. The way you just stare at him for hours as you admire his work.

Imagine the way he slowly, carefully, he began to think. Maybe this is what love looks like. Maybe this is what it feels like. So he planned it. The proposal. Not the one that was arranged by your families. This one is private, intimate. Just for the two of you.

Imagine he wasn't good with sentiment, not like you. So he turned to the only person he trusted with the details, his bodyguard, MC. She had the clarity he lacked, the composure to pull it off. And she agreed without hesitation.

Imagine you were supposed to find the shells. You were supposed to follow the trail to the spot he first smiled at you. The ring would be there, and so would he, on one knee. That was the plan. But the plan never mattered in the end. Because something in you had already broken. And he failed to noticed. Not until it was too late.

Imagine he remembered the way your voice trembled when you asked if he had eaten for dinner. He remembered brushing you off. Again. “Miss Bodyguard and I already ate.” He remembered the flicker of light, of hope in your eyes when he said her name. The way your hands moved back, trying to hide the plate of his favorite food. He didn't even say thank you. He remembered your silence that night. And the silence that followed after that. And then there was nothing at all.

Imagine the time he found the note you left behind, the ring was already burning a hole in his pocket.

If she ever gets the pieces of you I waited for, tell her I'm glad someone finally saw them.

Imagine the way he read it once. Twice. Ten times. He clutched it with shaking hands, staring at the place where your painting was, the one you've been trying so hard to paint for so that you could spend time with him. It was now complete. Painted on the canvas was an image of two people. One that was clearly painted after him and the other figure looking like a blur. You were gone.

"She thought I loved you." he whispered to MC, standing in the ruins of what was meant to be your new beginning. MC was quiet as always. "She thought I loved you." He repeated, his eyes trembling as he stare at the sea numbly. "And do you?" She asked. Rafayel then close his eyes. "No." He breathed. "No, I don't."

but Imagine, does did even it matter now? You're already gone. You had looked at his laughter and found yourself a stranger to it. You had watched him lean towards another and wondered when did you stopped being the the one he fell into. You had waited and waited and waited until love became loneliness wrapped in duty. And so when he reached out, he find nothing but fine sand slipping through his fingers.

Imagine everytime he went back to the island. Alone. The shells were still there, the ones you left for him. He tried to follow the trail backwards like maybe if he reversed time, he could find you waiting at the end. But you aren't there. Only the sea and silence. And a memory of a heart he did not know was slowly and quietly falling apart.

Imagine you once told yourself that you cannot heal in the same place you got sick. But Rafayel? He carries the ring. Not to give but to remember. Trying to figure out if he was the illness or just the cure that came too late. Because sometimes, the cruelest heartbreak wasn't being unloved. But being loved just a little too late.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: fuck cleaning my room, imma do this.