Fear did not ask permission before settling in.
It threaded itself through the warmth she brought with her, subtle and patient. Every time he felt lighter around her, fear followed a second later, whispering that anything capable of lifting him this much could also drop him just as far.
He did not tell her that.
Instead, he became careful.
Careful with how much he said. Careful with how often he looked at her for reassurance. Careful not to let his relief show too clearly, as if gratitude itself might reveal weakness. He learned to school his expression and keep his voice even when something inside him leaned toward her instinctively.
But caution only went so far.
Some days arrived already ruined. He could tell from the moment he woke up. His chest felt tight. His thoughts were dull and uncooperative. The ceiling pressed down on him like an accusation. On those days, he moved through school on autopilot, responding when spoken to and existing just convincingly enough to avoid concern.
She noticed anyway.
She always did.
She had a way of finding him when he drifted too far inward. She would sit beside him without comment, offering quiet instead of questions. Sometimes she spoke about inconsequential things. Something she saw online. A teacher she disliked. A story with no real ending. Sometimes she said nothing at all.
The silence with her felt different.
It did not demand performance. It did not ask him to fill it. It simply existed, wide and patient, allowing him to exist within it.
That alone felt like mercy.
There were moments, small and unremarkable, that stayed with him longer than they should have. Her handing him a pen without looking when his stopped working. Her remembering how he took his tea. The way she adjusted her pace when walking beside him, matching him unconsciously.
These things should not have mattered.
They did.
He started to notice how his body responded to her presence before his mind did. His shoulders loosened. His breath evened out. His thoughts slowed enough to be bearable. It frightened him how automatic it was, how deeply ingrained the response became.
She was not fixing him.
She was making him forget he was broken.
And forgetting felt dangerous.
Once, after a particularly long day, he found himself talking without planning to. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Too honest. Too close to the truth.
"I think there's something wrong with me," he said.
She did not rush to contradict him. She did not offer platitudes. She just looked at him, attentive in a way that made his throat tighten.
"What makes you think that?" she asked.
He searched for the right words and found none that felt safe. The real answer sat heavy in his chest, untranslatable.
"I don't feel things the way I'm supposed to," he said finally.
She considered that. Then she spoke gently.
"Maybe you feel them differently."
The idea lodged itself inside him, uncomfortable and hopeful all at once.
After that, the restraint slipped more often.
He let himself sit closer. He let conversations stretch late into the evening. He let his guard lower in increments so small he could pretend they were not happening. He relied on her steadiness when his thoughts spiraled and on her presence when his mind threatened to go quiet in ways that scared him.
He never asked for help directly.
He did not need to.
She offered it without framing it as help and without making him feel like a burden. That was the most dangerous part. She made care feel effortless, undeserved, freely given.
And slowly, inevitably, he began to organize himself around that.
He caught himself thinking I will tell her later, or she will understand, or it will be better once I see her. The realization came late and unwelcome. He was postponing his own stability and deferring it to moments that involved her.
His anchor.
The word surfaced unbidden one evening, and he hated how accurate it felt.
Anchors kept you from drifting.
Anchors also kept you from leaving.
That night, lying in his messy room and staring at the ceiling he knew too well, fear finally took shape. Not fear of her, but fear of what he was becoming in her orbit. Fear of how easily he might disappear if she ever pulled away. Fear of how little of himself he seemed able to access without her nearby.
He understood then that this was not love.
But it was close enough to hurt.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the numbness and the caution and the quiet panic, another truth waited. One he was not ready to face yet.
She was already holding a part of him he did not know how to take back.
End of Part II