The email arrives at 9:14 a.m.
We wanted to check in.
Juni reads it once, then again.
A wellness coordinator. A neutral signature. Language that bends itself into gentleness. Someone has expressed concern about his stress levels. The university wants to ensure he has support.
No accusation. No context.
Just care.
Juni closes the email and stares at his reflection in the dark screen. He feels something tighten—not anxiety, but anger sharpened by clarity.
They aren't worried about him.
They are worried through him.
He forwards the email to Elian without comment.
Elian replies within minutes. Do not respond yet.
They meet later that afternoon, sitting on a bench between buildings. Elian's posture is controlled, but Juni can feel the tension beneath it.
"They're framing scrutiny as support," Elian says. "It's a common tactic."
Juni exhales. "I hate how small it makes me feel."
Elian looks at him sharply. "You are not small."
"I know," Juni says. "But that's the problem. They need me to be."
He opens the email again. Reads it aloud. The words sound worse spoken—concern flattening him into fragility, pressure rewritten as vulnerability.
"I don't want you responding for me," Juni says quietly.
Elian nods immediately. "I won't."
"And I don't want this treated like something I need to be rescued from," Juni continues. "I want to answer it. On my terms."
Elian's jaw tightens, anger flickering across his expression. Then he steadies. "Okay."
They draft the reply together, but Juni types.
It is polite. Brief. Clear.
He acknowledges the outreach. States that he is managing his workload effectively. Declines additional support at this time. Thanks them for checking in.
No apology. No confession.
When he hits send, his hands tremble slightly—not from fear, but from the effort of holding ground.
Later, lying beside Elian, Juni stares at the ceiling. "They wanted me to accept their version of me."
Elian turns toward him. "And you didn't."
Juni nods. "I won't."
The wellness email doesn't escalate.
But it doesn't disappear either.
Care, Juni realizes, can be a tool—soft enough to deny, sharp enough to cut.
He closes his eyes, grounding himself in the steady presence beside him.
Love didn't cause this.
Systems did.
And he will not let concern erase his agency.