Riven's POV
The rooftop was cold without Eli.
The echo of his voice still clung to the corners, like it refused to leave just yet.
Riven sat there alone for hours after Eli left, sketch still in his hands, crumpled now—not from anger, but from trembling.
His phone buzzed.
Not Eli.
Just silence wrapped in noise.
He couldn't go home. Couldn't face his mother, her perfect questions. Couldn't pretend he was okay anymore.
He had tried so hard to protect Eli from his chaos.
But in doing so, he had become the very storm he was afraid of.
---
Riven ended up in a convenience store at midnight.
He bought instant noodles. Eli liked spicy ones. He bought those too, out of habit.
Then he sat outside on the curb, slurping flavorless soup and watching cars pass by.
And all he could think about was:
I had him.
I had him… and I let him walk away.
---
Eli's POV
It was the first time he didn't cry.
Not when he got home.
Not when he deleted the draft messages.
Not even when he took down Riven's photo from his wall.
He just… sat.
And breathed.
Because this time, he had said what he needed to say.
He hadn't begged.
He hadn't broken.
He had chosen himself.
And maybe that was growth.
But it still hurt like hell.
His chest felt like it was holding back something bigger than grief—something like growing pains, the ache of becoming someone who wouldn't wait forever.
---
The Next Day
They saw each other in the hallway.
A glance.
That was all.
No waves.
No smiles.
No words.
But that glance? It held so much.
Eli's eyes: tired, but unshaken.
Riven's: pleading, but silent.
And then they passed each other like strangers who used to know each other's hands by heart.
---
Riven's POV (Later That Night)
He sat on the rooftop again.
Alone.
He looked up at the stars Eli used to name for him.
They were there.
Still glowing.
And he realized something:
He didn't just miss Eli.
He missed who he was when Eli was around.
Braver. Softer. Human.
And that scared him.
Because now, he had two choices:
Let Eli go, and carry the regret forever.
Or fight.
For the first time in his life, actually fight for someone.
Not with fists or pride.
But with truth.
Real, vulnerable, messy truth.
Riven stared up at the night sky, pulled out his phone, and began to write.
Not a message.
A letter.
One last try.
---