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Caleb was a good person. In the end, you weren’t.
Caleb—your Caleb—was gentle and loving. His kindness was so genuine it made your heart twist in guilt, overflowing just to be on the receiving end of such care.
He loved you—or at least, you wanted to believe he did. That his devotion mirrored yours.
Caleb would’ve wanted you to be confident, happy, steady on your feet. You knew he would’ve worked himself to the bone to make that happen.
You couldn’t ignore his wishes, not even for the familiar comfort of misery.
It was an important day: grandma and Caleb were waiting—one final time. You couldn’t be selfish. You had to see them, love them. One more day and then all those that followed, religiously.
Your hands trembled as you held the scissors. Your swollen, red eyes locked on the mirror as if the reflection belonged to a stranger, that this wasn’t the person Caleb had loved. The thought terrified you—that you could become someone he wouldn’t have cared for.
Your bangs had grown too long, stabbing at your eyes. Your hair hung heavy. Your face was marred—eyebags deep, bruises coloring your right cheek and undereye, a cut on your bottom lip. Your wounded, injured body burned and hurt as if protesting the sole purpose of existing since the explosion.
You weren’t pretty, you were a wreck, barely held together by guilt. And you hated it. You despised that someone Caleb once cared for could look like that. The fact that he couldn’t see you then was disgustingly comforting.
The snip of the scissors was the only sound, paired with your ragged breath as you cut a lock of your hair.
You needed to get a hold of yourself. You needed to get better. You had to take control of your life. Live.
Live—as if you deserved to, while your family was being buried that day.
Another snip. Faster, careless. The blade grazed your cheek. You didn’t care. The sting was comforting, almost relieving.
You craved control—any small proof that your existence wasn’t just a leaf at the mercy of the wind.
Another snip. The left side of your hair fell too short, just under your chin.
Then another. And another. Every shred of self, of love, of control crumbled like dust. As if there had never been anything holding you together. As if Caleb had been the only force anchoring you to the tree. And now that he was gone, so were you.
What a silly thought, to think you could do anything but destroy everything you touched. Even the most beautiful flower withered. And it did.
You hacked off a piece of your bangs. Too short. Too ugly. Too wrong. Everything was wrong. Nothing would ever be right again.
And you were angry. Angry at Grandma and angry at Caleb—for dying, for leaving. Angry at him for shielding you from the explosion. As if being buried wouldn’t have brought you more peace than this.
You were angry that you were still there, breathing, while they weren’t.
It was wrong. It was unfair. Ugly tears blurred your vision. Your whole body trembled, the grip over the scissors so strong that the thought of them breaking felt like a good idea, having to feel something that wasn’t the grief devouring you voraciously, leaving nothing behind.
Control. Maybe you needed to cut something else. Anything to regain it. Because if you didn’t, you’d go mad.
The blade hovered against your neck and pressed, lightly, at first.
And the feeling was divine.
Just the touch of it seemed to lift something heavy off your shoulders. If you just pressed a little harder—maybe it would all be okay.
Caleb would have been furious. He’d have thrown a fit and called you dumb for this. He’d have told you it was wrong.
But Caleb wasn’t there.
He would never be there again. Just a name carved into stone. A memory already starting to fade.
A single drop of blood trickled down your neck.
Casual.
As casual as how this specific shade of red reminded you of the shade Rafayel had shown you the last time you spoke in his studio.
It felt selfish to think of anyone but Caleb or Grandma, that the thought of thinking of something—someone, him—was enough to make you feel better, maybe heal, could even cross your mind.
And that was enough to drive you mad.
You couldn’t control your grief or your thoughts, and you tried to hold onto the bittersweet pain, trying to think back to the explosion, to Caleb and Grandma.
You tried to grab the grief and hold it, using the pain as the only means of feeling, but each time Rafayel came back to mind and it drove you mad, it made you furious how just the thought of your name coming out of his lips was enough to comfort you more than the blade pressed against your neck ever would.
It was careless, it was stupid when you threw the scissors against the mirror with all your force, shattering the glass and shouting to the air as it pierced your hands, generous drops of blood dripping down and staining the sink, the floor, your skin, everything.
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Rafayel was awake, his painting lulled by the sound of the storm outside, when someone knocked on his door—hurried, clumsy, as if they had a personal reason to be there.
Though grumpy and annoyed at the uninvited visitor at 3 a.m., he opened the door regardless. He was tired and didn’t care if it was an assassin or someone who overestimated their abilities.
When Rafayel saw you still wrapped in the same old bandages he had seen at the hospital from when he visited you and newer ones, drenched from the heavy rain and shaking, dressed in clothes too light to protect you from the cold and wind—and yet the most haunting thing was the way your hair was cut uneven and jagged as if you had cut it blindfolded, the way your tears and snot mixed with the rain, your breathing so heavy that for Rafayel it almost overshadowed the storm, it felt like like someone stepped on his heart, seeing you so hurt.
He stilled, a turmoil of emotions running through him like a marathon. Worry was the first thing he grasped, followed by sadness, and maybe even a hint of anger—there was much he couldn’t piece together.
“Come in,” he said quickly, softly, before you could even speak, hoping you hadn’t noticed the slight crack in his voice. The image of you so vulnerable felt like a direct stab through his heart, that, despite his love and care, you could still get hurt.
You looked at him with surprise gleaming in your eyes, a flash of regret flickering through them as you realized how you might have looked to him. Rafayel was quick to bring you inside, his hand resting gently on your shoulder—careful, slow, afraid to startle you—and closed the door behind you.
He didn’t ask immediately what had happened. Instead, he led you to the couch and gestured for you to sit. You looked at him, then at the couch.
“I’ll ruin it,” you said, your voice trembling, and it hurt to hear you sound like that.
Rafayel sighed, placing both hands on your shoulders and gently pushing you down, which made you gasp in surprise. It was a little endearing, he thought. He quickly grabbed a heavy blanket from the other end of the couch and wrapped it around you, the weight adding a sense of comfort.
“Ruin it then. I don’t care,” he insisted, his voice soft and gentle. The only sound you made in response was a small sob, followed by a sneeze that made Rafayel chuckle.
When you didn’t get up or complain, he patted your hair, not caring about the mess it was.
“Good job,” he praised, sweet, almost teasing. “I’m going to bring you something warm. Stay here.”
And so you stayed, as if surrendering the control you craved to Rafayel so easily—if he asked, you felt you could give him everything, anything at all. Cold but comforted by the blanket, you looked down at the floor, noticing scattered art utensils strewn about, signs of frustration. You were reminded of how he had been complaining about his lack of ideas lately.
Your gaze shifted to the glorious canvas waiting for the artist’s hands, and the thought of Rafayel talking to you about it when finished gave you a feeling of happiness, calm, even.
You found it strange that someone like Rafayel could give you that: calm, slow, caring—like the gentle ocean breeze, the waves washing away every little burden.
The thought of loving Rafayel felt as natural as breathing, and you felt yourself sinking deeper into that feeling every day. Still, such sweetness felt like something you shouldn’t feel.
How selfish of you to think about this happiness he might have brought you, how just his presence seemed enough to make you feel not less hurt, but calmer, happy.
The sound of Rafayel’s footsteps made you look up just as he placed a mug of tea in your hands. Surprised, you looked at him as he sat beside you, blew the steam off his own cup before sipping the beverage slowly, as if buying time.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
It was such a simple, gentle question, yet you felt it carried so much more: pain, expectation, an answer.
If you told him about the dark thoughts you had, how even his presence couldn’t stop you from thinking about being there—alive—and not with Caleb or Grandma, it would make everything real.
It would make Rafayel worry more, dragging and forcing those thoughts out from your mind into his.
Rafayel didn’t press when you hesitated and drank some of your own tea, getting used to the warmth.
He stayed on the couch beside you, seemingly unfazed by your damp clothes ruining the cushions or your shoulder brushing against him.
He didn’t care, he said with such nonchalance—as if you could break everything, anything, in his house, the thing he valued most in this world, even, and yet, yet, still ask if you were okay.
His gaze flickered to the scattered sheets on the floor and coffee table, occasionally drifting to you in a way that made you feel more seen than ever, though he tried to hide it.
Worry, you thought he was feeling—and who wouldn’t be, if their employee showed up after midnight in the middle of a storm? Still, you selfishly wanted to believe it was just polite care, that you didn’t deserve more, so you could return to the bittersweet sadness of existing.
“I ruined my hair,” you said, a seemingly unrelated answer as you reached for one of your too-short locks and brought it to your eyes. Seeing how much a person could mess up everything good, how you couldn’t even style your hair for their funeral—how much control you needed, and how little you actually had.
Rafayel didn’t tease. He looked at you for a few seconds, his eyebrows pinching as if he knew every single thought running through your head.
There was such gentle care when he set the mug down and slowly reached for one of your longer locks, running his thumb over it, his gaze fixed on it.
“Do you want me to fix it?”
It was yet another simple question, a simple solution. Was it really so easy? Had it ever been easy to let Rafayel help fix you? Would it be enough? How could you reveal your ugly parts to him and not expect him to turn away?
Was there even a way to fix any of it? After all this, why would Rafayel think there was anything worth saving?
“What if it doesn’t work?” It almost made you annoyed how easy he made it sound. A step, a path to follow. The idea of him next to you, caring for you, twisted your stomach.
And what if it didn’t work? What if he tried, but there was nothing left to heal—just ugly scars that wouldn’t fade, devouring the little good things stubbornly left behind? What if, in doing so, you devoured Rafayel too?
You thought you could handle everything alone, but now you found yourself failing—failing at everything thrown your way, failing Caleb.
It was selfish how, for a moment, you thought the worst thing that could happen—worse than your grief—was failing Rafayel too. The disgust you felt at the thought was like spitting on their gravestones.
And yet, you couldn’t deny how true that thought was.
“We’ll try again, then,” Rafayel answered: sweet, gentle. “If you still don’t like it, we’ll just wait for it to grow back.” His fingers began braiding the lock slowly and gently, making you feel pampered, taken care of.
“What if it takes a long time?” you asked. “What if it never goes back to how it was?” You insisted, watching the braid his slim fingers worked on, almost entranced by how carefully he touched you, how when he finished he kissed the end of the braid, his lips lingering for a few seconds before tilting his head up to look at you—as if you were something precious, to be cherished and loved.
“Then we remember how it was—and love whatever comes next.”