Gawin didn’t come back after that night.
He turned off his phone.
Shut down every account.
Cut off every signal.
And disappeared.

Joss still woke up every morning and turned to the other side of the bed—
where Gawin’s pillow still held the faint imprint of his hair,
but was cold from the inside out.
No messages.
No trace.
Just a hollow silence, like the whole house was learning how to live without his breath in it.

Instead of calling until the line went dead, Joss started writing.
All the things he couldn’t say out loud.
Message after message that never got sent.
Drafts of letters he never had the courage to deliver.
Emails he opened, typed, and closed again.

Each one a quiet plea:
"If you need time, I’ll wait."
"If you’re scared, tell me. Don’t run."
"I’m not asking you to love me — just don’t turn me into a stranger."

On the third night, his phone lit up in the rain.
An unknown number.

Gawin’s voice came through — hoarse, tired, heavy like a stone dropped into an open palm:
"Where are you?"

Just one sentence.
That’s all it took.
Joss grabbed his keys and bolted out into the downpour that felt like it could break the sky.

He found him there — standing outside the old studio apartment he used to rent in college.
No umbrella. No jacket.
Rain soaking through his hair, streaking down flushed cheeks.
His hands trembled, but he didn’t flinch.

Joss didn’t ask why.
Didn’t demand an explanation.
He just pulled Gawin into his arms, gripping him tight, like he was trying to hold onto a soul that had just wandered back home.

With rain pounding on the tin roof above them, Gawin’s voice cracked:

"I hate this feeling… this way I need you like an addiction."

Joss didn’t smile.
Didn’t soothe him with empty sweetness.
He pressed his forehead against Gawin’s — cold, shivering — and whispered:

"Me too. I hate it like hell. But I didn’t choose this feeling… I chose you."

They sat on the floor, backs against the wall, breaths syncing in the dim, broken space.
No power. No lights.
Just the soft glow of a phone screen casting pale light on their faces — worn, fragile, but real.

"Are you scared?" Gawin asked.
"Yeah."
"Then why come?"
"Because I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you."

No one moved first.
But somehow, their mouths found each other —
a reply louder than any reason could muster.

This kiss wasn’t rushed.
Wasn’t desperate.
It was slow. Cautious.
As if both of them knew: if they pushed too hard, the other might shatter.

Clothes came off in silence.
Not to conquer.
But to feel.
To remember.
To be sure that even after all the weariness, they still belonged to each other.

Gawin’s arms looped around Joss’s neck,
letting him kiss along every vertebrae, every faded mark that once said you are mine.
And when Joss entered him — slow, steady —
Gawin bit his lip, not from pain,
but because his chest swelled with something between a sob, a laugh, and a longing to stay.

"Don’t make this temporary again," Joss murmured into the rhythm, hands firm at Gawin’s waist.
"Then don’t leave me first."
"I’d be a fool to lose you twice."

The old bedsheet on the floor was wrinkled, damp with sweat.
The smell of skin, of rain, of two people once broken, now trying to stitch themselves back together with every gentle touch.

Afterward, they just lay there, breathing.
Gawin’s head resting on Joss’s shoulder,
his arm draped across Joss’s chest.
Quiet. But peaceful — like survivors after a storm.

"You know..." Gawin’s voice came soft, not meeting Joss’s eyes.
"Some days, I hate how weak I am. But with you… being weak doesn’t feel so terrible."

Joss didn’t say a word.
He just held him closer.
Then closed his eyes —
clinging to this moment like if he let go, it would disappear like a dream.

@Nopbyy Việt Nam 🇻🇳