You and Phlias had always been a storm waiting to happen. The kind where the sky looks clear one moment, and the next, lightning splits the air. From the outside, things seemed perfect. But up close, there was a space between them, a silent, aching void neither of them knew how to cross.

You loved fiercely, too fiercely for him. He reached for him with open hands, open heart, always searching for the version of him that felt just out of reach. You would trace your fingers along his arm, trying to memorize the way his skin felt under your touch, afraid that one day he might slip away entirely.

Phlias on the other hand, felt like he was drowning every time you got too close. It wasn’t that he didn’t love you—God, he did. He loved you in a way that made his chest ache, in a way that terrified him. But love had always felt like a trap, like something that could break him apart if he let it sink in too deep. So he kept his distance.

They would spend nights tangled in sheets, your lips pressed to his collarbone, whispering things you wanted him to believe. *I’m here. I won’t leave. I love you.* And for a moment, he’d let himself believe it. But as soon as the sun rose, reality crept in like a shadow.

You would wake to find him already up, already dressed, already gone before you could ask him to stay. You’d sit up in bed, the cold side of the mattress a cruel reminder that you were always reaching for someone who was halfway out the door.

Phlias sat at the edge of the bed, lacing his fingers together, knuckles white. He could feel your eyes on him, searching, waiting—like always.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

You exhaled sharply, standing near the window, arms wrapped around yourself. “You don’t know how to do what, Phlias? Love me? Trust me?”

“That’s not fair.” He snapped back defensively. “I do love you, but I don’t know how to *need* you.”

That was always the problem, wasn’t it? Loving him while he kept you at a distance.