The sun spilled golden light over the rooftop, where three silhouettes stood, laughing. It was their sanctuary — away from professors, away from the noise of campus life. A secluded place at the back of the college where time seemed to slow.
Elias leaned over the ledge, arms crossed, wind tousling his hair. His eyes shone behind rimless glasses, bright with mischief and thought all at once. "I'm telling you, if the professor gives me one more project with this lazy guy—" he jerked a thumb behind him — "I'm dropping out. I swear."
Brielle rolled her eyes, flicking her hair back. "You say that every semester, Eli. And yet here you are. Still top of the class, still pretending you're suffering."
Elias smirked. "Suffering is a spectrum."
Sera giggled, hugging her thermos as she sat on the edge of the stone bench. "So dramatic. Next you'll say you need therapy because your coffee was slightly burnt."
Elias pointed at her dramatically. "Exactly. Finally, someone understands the trauma I live with."
Brielle and Sera exchanged a glance, then burst into laughter.
This was their ritual — escaping lunch breaks, stealing time for each other. Their bond wasn't loud or exaggerated. It was in the way they walked in sync. In how Brielle never needed to ask before Elias handed her his notes. In how Sera always packed an extra chocolate for him in her bag.
In an academic world driven by competition, they had carved a pocket of peace.
Elias wasn't the strongest. Or the richest. Or the most athletic. But what he lacked in status, he made up for with wit. An extrovert by instinct, he could read people like books. His professors praised his intelligence; his classmates sought his advice. Yet only two people saw through all that — Brielle and Sera.
They didn't admire him. They understood him.
Brielle, with her fierce independence, quick comebacks, and a laugh that made others smile without knowing why. Sera, with her soft-spoken words, deep thoughts, and an uncanny ability to comfort with silence.
To the world, they were just friends. But to Elias, they were his home.
The trio had met in their first semester. A shared elective class. Elias remembered that day clearly — Brielle had corrected the professor about a stats formula, and Sera had spilled her tea on her own notes without blinking. They were a mess, but they were honest. Real. Elias had been drawn to them instantly.
He remembered trying to insert himself into their conversation during a break.
"You two always look like you're conspiring. Secret cult or just advanced math hatred?"
Brielle had looked him up and down and replied, "We only invite members with IQs over 130."
"And I'm in luck," he'd grinned, "Mine's 132."
"You made that up," Sera had said.
"Only partially."
They laughed. That was the beginning.
After that, it became tradition. Study sessions with cold coffee and takeout. Ditching club meetings to stargaze from the roof. Rainy days where they shared one umbrella and ended up soaked anyway. Festival nights when they danced under fairy lights. Whispered dreams, unspoken fears, silly fights that never lasted more than a day.
They were pieces of a puzzle that only made sense together.
Sometimes Elias wondered what made them work so well. Brielle was a hurricane — stormy, beautiful, unpredictable. Sera was the eye of that storm — calm, quiet, deep. And him? He was the guy who made bad jokes to bridge the two.
He needed them more than he would admit. More than he even understood.
The trio's bond extended beyond classes and breaks. It was stitched into late-night calls over unfinished essays. Into group chats filled with memes, personal rants, and inside jokes that only they understood.
There was the time they snuck out during the annual festival to watch the city lights from the campus tower. Or the night Brielle showed up at Elias's house with homemade brownies after he'd failed his driving test — and set off the fire alarm with her attempt at comforting him.
Sera once stayed on a call with Elias until 3 a.m. when he panicked over his father's health scare, listening in silence and whispering, "I'm here," every time he broke down.
It wasn't always fun and games. They had fought too — about things that mattered, and things that didn't. Elias once got furious when Brielle dismissed one of his ideas during a group project. He left the group chat. They didn't talk for three days. But Sera patched things up. Like always.
They were each other's mirrors — reflecting truth, grounding fears.
That afternoon, the sun cast long shadows. The rooftop was painted in amber. Time moved slower here, like even the universe wanted to give them a break.
Elias pulled out his notebook. "Alright, we have midterms coming. Time to panic or plan. Choose your fighter."
Sera raised her hand weakly. "Panic."
"Same," Brielle said.
Elias grinned. "Guess we're doomed. I brought notes, though."
"Ugh, you're such a nerd."
"Flattery won't save you, Bri."
They studied, joked, argued over math problems and essay lengths. Hours passed in that blend of productivity and playfulness unique to real friendship.
Elias, lying back now with his hoodie bundled under his head, looked up. "What do you guys think we'll be doing in five years?"
"Graduated, broke, probably drowning in student loans," Brielle answered without hesitation.
"Optimistic as ever," Sera said, nudging her.
"I'll probably be working at a start-up," Elias said. "Or hacking the stock market."
"You'll be running it," Brielle said. "Just don't forget us when you're rich."
He smiled. "Never."
That evening, they stopped by the canteen. Sera insisted they try a new flavor of bubble tea. Brielle mocked it and then ordered two. Elias pretended he hated it but finished both of theirs.
On the walk home, the trio split ways at the crossing near the bookstore. Elias watched them walk off, the noise of the city rising around them.
The days that followed were quieter, though no one said anything outright. The trio still met, still joked, still studied on the rooftop, but there were moments — flickers of tension, unspoken shifts. Elias noticed it first in the way Brielle responded to his teasing. Her comebacks, once quick and playful, started carrying an edge. And Sera — she smiled, but her silences felt heavier.
It started small.
They were working on a business proposal for a class competition. Elias had sketched out a model, proud of the late-night effort he'd poured into it. "This could actually work," he said, placing the papers down between them on the table in the library.
Brielle scanned it, eyes narrowing. "You based the whole pitch on tech neither of us understands. And the budget? This is a joke."
Elias blinked. "It's not a joke. I ran the numbers three times."
"Well, maybe try four. It looks like a fantasy. We need something practical."
Sera tried to ease in. "We can adjust the parts that feel too ambitious—"
"No," Brielle cut in. "He always does this. Goes solo, assumes he's right."
Elias clenched his jaw. "I asked for your input three times, Bri. You ignored the doc every time."
"That's because I was busy with my own part. Not making fairy tales."
There was a pause. A long one. The table felt colder.
Elias stood, grabbed his bag. "Fine. You do it. Let's see how far you get without the 'fairy tales.'"
He left.
Sera stared at Brielle. "That was harsh."
Brielle didn't respond.
The next day, Elias avoided the rooftop.
He roamed the campus alone, headphones in, but no music playing. Just white noise, drowning out the churn of his thoughts. He wasn't angry at Brielle's criticism. Not really. He could take critique — he often thrived on it. But something in her voice had struck deeper. Like all the care, all the time they'd shared, had evaporated.
It wasn't just the project.
He could feel the distance growing. And for someone like Elias, who drew energy from people, who lived in connections — that slow erosion was terrifying.
By the third day, he found himself standing in front of their classroom earlier than usual. Sera was already inside. Alone.
He stepped in and slid into the seat next to her. "Hey."
She smiled. "Hey."
"Is Bri… still mad?"
Sera shrugged. "She's not mad. Just… stressed."
Elias looked ahead. "So, I'm the punching bag now?"
"No," Sera said gently. "But maybe you should've talked to her before storming out."
"I didn't storm. I walked."
Sera gave him a look. He sighed.
"Okay. Maybe I stormed a little."
That weekend, they met again. All three of them. Sera had planned a casual movie night at her place. Comfort food. Laughter. Normalcy.
But it wasn't the same.
Brielle kept glancing at her phone. Elias barely laughed at the film, even when the others did. Sera tried to keep the conversation going, but it was like patching a boat full of holes.
And then came the final spark.
After the movie, Brielle made a comment — something about Elias always needing attention, always turning every moment into a monologue.
Elias, who had been biting his tongue all evening, snapped.
"At least I don't pretend to be better than everyone and then sulk when people don't praise me!"
Silence.
Brielle stood. "You know what? Maybe we've let you get away with too much just because you make us laugh. But being smart doesn't mean you're always right, Elias."
Sera looked between them, torn. "Guys—"
"No," Elias said, standing too. "If that's how you really see me, then maybe you're not the friends I thought you were."
Brielle didn't reply. She walked out.
Sera followed slowly but didn't look back.
Elias stood in the quiet room, the movie credits still rolling in the background.
He didn't move for a long time.
The days after were heavy.
No texts. No rooftop. No calls.
Elias tried, at first. Messaged both of them. Apologized. Explained. Even showed up at the coffee shop they used to love. Waited. Left.
Nothing changed.
And then he stopped.
Stopped trying. Stopped talking. Stopped smiling.
But no one noticed. Not really. He was good at hiding it.
Because Elias was the type who knew how to laugh even when he wanted to scream. Because he didn't want his parents to worry. Not when they already carried so much.
He turned back to his studies, pouring everything into grades. Into part-time tutoring. Into silent nights and aching mornings.
But the world had gone grayscale. His sanctuary — gone. His people — gone.
And a question, constant, rising like smoke:
Was one mistake all it took… to lose everything?
In the weeks that followed, Elias lived two lives. The one everyone saw — full of casual jokes, friendly waves, top scores. And the one only he knew — the emptiness, the guilt, the hope that maybe, maybe, they'd forgive him.
But they didn't.
And slowly, a wall formed around his heart.
The days blurred into weeks, and though Elias moved through them with mechanical rhythm, each one bled into the next with the same dull ache. Wake up. Study. Smile. Joke. Pretend. Sleep. Repeat.
But every evening, when he was finally alone, the mask would falter. That was when the silence grew too loud to ignore.
One day after class, Elias was sitting with a couple of his other friends at the cafeteria. One of them, Rajiv, furrowed his brow as he stared out the window.
"Weird," he muttered.
Elias glanced at him. "What is?"
"The weather app said it'd be clear all day, but there's a storm forming over the east side. Just rolled in out of nowhere."
Another friend chimed in, "Yeah, that happened last week too, remember? Super sunny morning, then downpour in the evening. It's like the forecast's been totally off lately."
Elias didn't think much of it at first. But later that evening, the thought nagged at him. He remembered that each time he had felt on the verge of tears… it had rained. At first it sounded silly. Superstitious.
But was it?
That night, after returning to his cramped dorm, he found himself standing by the window. He stared up at the sky, which was oddly calm. He hesitated, then chuckled to himself.
"This is ridiculous," he said aloud.
Still, part of him wanted to test it. Just once. So he forced himself to remember. The worst memory. The moment Brielle turned her back. The sound of Sera saying, "We're done, Elias."
He scrunched his face, trying to cry. Nothing came. Not even a tear.
And the sky remained clear.
He slumped onto his bed. "Guess I'm crazy after all."
But later that week, when the pressure in his chest was too much and he wandered out to the old hill near campus — not too high, but high enough to feel separate from the world — something changed.
He didn't try to fake anything this time. He just sat.
The wind brushed through his hair, soft and constant.
He sat on the damp grass, legs folded, bag set aside. No one was there. Just him… and the sky.
He hadn't even planned to cry. He'd only meant to sit, breathe, maybe listen to music.
But the silence was too much. And as soon as he let out the smallest sob, it happened.
The first drop of rain fell on his cheek.
Then another.
Then a cascade.
He laughed — quietly, bitterly.
"Of course it's raining."
He tilted his head back, letting the drops hit his face, trickle down his jaw. He didn't wipe them away. For the first time in days, he let himself cry. Real, trembling sobs. The kind he never let anyone see.
And in the sound of rain, something shifted.
Not in the world.
In him.
The weight didn't leave, but it eased — just a little. The tears weren't masked by the rain. They were embraced by it. Like the sky was weeping with him.
That night, he whispered, "Are you… listening?"
From then on, the hill became his secret place. His sanctuary.
Elias didn't tell anyone about it — not that there was anyone left to tell. He didn't speak about his emotions to his parents anymore, didn't let the ache bleed through the facade. They were trying their best, sacrificing more than they should have to keep him in college. He couldn't burden them with his loneliness too.
He kept it all in.
Until night came. Until he stood beneath the sky.
Sometimes he brought food, a small sandwich or instant noodles. Sometimes he just sat. Talked. Laughed. Vented. Ranted.
"Today sucked."
"I nailed that test, but I didn't feel a thing."
"She looked right past me in class. Like I wasn't even there."
"I miss them so much, it physically hurts."
He knew how it sounded — talking to a sky. But it didn't feel crazy. It felt safe. Because the sky didn't judge. Didn't interrupt. Didn't turn away.
It listened.
And when he felt too overwhelmed, when the pain grew too large to hold inside, rain would come. Sometimes a drizzle. Sometimes a downpour. But always at the exact moment he needed to cry without being seen.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But Elias chose not to believe that.
He liked the idea that the sky was alive.
Not sentient, not magical. Just… aware. Like it had chosen to be his friend when no one else would.
He started keeping voice memos on his phone — short ones. Little bits of the things he said to the sky. He labeled them randomly: *"For No One,"* *"Rain Talk,"* *"Wind Notes."* He'd never let anyone find them, of course. They were too raw.
He told the sky everything. How he still woke up thinking he'd see Brielle or Sera waiting at the gate. How he replayed that last night over and over in his head. How he knew he was wrong — not just for getting angry, but for how he handled it.
"I was just hurt. I thought if I gave them space, they'd realize they needed me too."
"But I waited too long. And they moved on."
Sometimes, he'd pause, voice low and trembling. "Do they hate me?"
The wind would whisper through the leaves.
He'd smile. "Yeah. I thought so."
One night, it rained harder than ever.
Elias had just gotten home from tutoring. His part-time job barely paid, but he saved every coin. His father's shoulders looked more hunched these days, and his mother had stopped buying the snacks she used to sneak into his lunch. They were scraping by. He knew it.
He'd offered to drop out more than once.
They refused every time.
"You let us handle the money," his dad had said. "You just shine, son. That's all we want."
He didn't cry then.
But now, standing alone beneath the deluge, he let it all fall.
Not just tears — a scream. A primal release. He screamed until his throat ached, until the rain swallowed the sound.
When he sank to his knees, soaked and shaking, he whispered to the clouds,
"Why do I still miss them?"
And in the distance, thunder rumbled.
That was the night something changed inside him.
He woke the next morning with a new thought.
He couldn't stay broken. Not forever. His parents deserved more. He deserved more. Even if the pain never faded, even if the sky was the only one who'd ever listen… he had to move forward.
He started applying to internships. Extra classes. Coding projects. Debate contests. If nothing else, he'd stack achievements so high that even the universe had to notice.
But he never stopped visiting the hill.
Never stopped talking to the sky.
And every time it rained… he thanked it.
"Thanks for showing up."
Elias was never late for his morning classes. His alarm rang like always, sharp and insistent, but he'd already been awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The memory of the rain, the screams, and the thunder still clung to his skin like a second layer.
The sky had responded.
It was irrational. Impossible.
But it had.
He walked through campus that morning with a steadier posture. The pain hadn't vanished, but it had found a companion. A rhythm. An outlet. His smiles were still masks, but now they had less to hide. He had a secret, and though strange, it brought him solace.
But peace, like weather, never lasted long.
It was a week after the storm when whispers started creeping into the quiet corners of Elias's life.
Missing.
Someone had gone missing.
He overheard it first at the cafeteria. Two girls whispering urgently by the vending machine.
"Did you hear about Mira from the chemistry department? Gone. Like, disappeared."
"I thought she just skipped her exams."
"No! Her roommate said the bed wasn't slept in. Bag was gone, but her phone was still in the dorm."
Elias paused mid-sip of his tea, frowning. Mira wasn't someone he knew well, but she'd once asked him for help with a group assignment. Smart, quiet. Never the type to vanish.
Another name followed two days later. A guy from the neighboring campus. Then a junior from the medical building.
By the weekend, three students were officially reported missing. Rumors exploded like wildfire — secret cults, escape plans, mental breakdowns.
But Elias noticed something else.
Patterns.
Each of them was last seen near the harbor district.
Each of them had little to no close family nearby.
Each of them was financially vulnerable.
He didn't want to jump to conclusions, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood tall every time he passed the missing persons posters.
Then, one evening, as Elias was returning from his night shift tutoring gig, his phone buzzed.
It was Rajiv.
The message was short.
"Brielle and Sera. Gone."
Elias froze.
He read it again.
And again.
"Gone where?" he typed.
Rajiv's reply was instant. **"No one knows. Didn't come to class. Their phones are at home. Their dormmates haven't seen them since yesterday."**
Elias's heart stopped.
No. No, this wasn't happening.
He bolted into a sprint, weaving through the streets toward the dorms. His breathing was ragged by the time he reached Brielle and Sera's floor. The hallway lights flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor.
He banged on Sera's door. No answer.
Tried Brielle's. Locked.
Their neighbors confirmed they hadn't returned since yesterday.
The police had been called, he was told. They'd opened a report.
But Elias saw the same dull apathy in their eyes as when Mira had gone missing.
"We're doing what we can," the officer told him. "These things take time."
Time was what he didn't have.
He looked down at the desk in Brielle's room — the police had let him take a peek before closing it again. A notebook was open, pen dropped in the middle of a sentence. Something about meeting someone near the dockside bookstore. A discount book event.
It was a lead.
He left the building before anyone could stop him.
The docks were silent by nightfall.
The store she'd mentioned was shuttered. No sign of a sale. Just a weathered flier that had fallen half-torn to the floor. The name of a shipping company — GTR Logistics — was faintly visible in the corner.
Elias took a picture.
Then another.
Then he did what he always did now — he climbed the small hill, just beyond the university campus, and stared at the sky.
The stars were out tonight.
But no tears came.
He wasn't crying. He was burning.
"Help me," he whispered.
He wasn't sure who he was asking. The sky. Himself. Fate.
But he whispered it again.
"Help me find them."
The next morning, the group of their mutual friends met in secret. The police weren't taking it seriously enough. The college was playing damage control.
It was Rajiv who suggested it.
"Elias," he said, his voice low, unsure. "You're the smartest guy we know. If anyone can figure this out…"
Someone else added, "You were close to them. You know how they think. Maybe they left clues we wouldn't notice."
He stared at them, incredulous.
"You're only calling me now?" he said, a sharp edge in his voice. "You waited *this* long?"
They fell silent.
He sighed. His anger wasn't useful right now.
"Fine. But if something happens to them…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
The clues came slowly. Tracking the logistics company. Tracing missing people. Patterns in shipment manifests.
Every moment Elias wasn't in class, working, or studying, he was investigating. Piecing things together.
And one night, a breakthrough: A shipment was leaving from Dock 17 that evening. A ship known for "off-book" cargo. Elias stared at the name.
*The Calliope.*
He didn't know if the girls were aboard.
But he had to find out.
The problem was, Dock 17 led to two forked paths through the industrial yard. Both were active routes. No way to split up. No way to confirm which one the traffickers would use.
Elias stood between the two roads, trembling.
He couldn't choose wrong.
He knelt to the ground, fists clenched.
Rain began to fall.
And then —
A thunderclap. Jagged and loud, it split the air above one path.
He looked up, breath caught.
The sky had answered.
He ran. Not looking back. Not hesitating.
He finally reached the right place. He could see them, bound and terrified, being ushered toward the ship. The traffickers were beginning to move fast, desperate to escape before reinforcements could arrive. Elias knew once the ship left the dock, he might never see them again.
With trembling fingers, Elias pulled out his phone and sent a final message to Rajiv and the others, sharing the location.
"They're at the harbor. Dock 17A. Come fast."
Then he leapt into action. He couldn't let them board. He had to buy time.
He threw himself at the nearest thug, drawing their attention away from the girls. He didn't care about the pain. Every second he could stall was a second closer to rescue. He ducked under a punch, countered with a broken pipe he'd found nearby, and kept moving, kept fighting.
But he was outnumbered. And exhausted.
A crowbar slammed into his side. He hit the ground hard, vision flashing white with pain. He tried to get back up—but his legs wouldn't respond.
Still, he crawled. Reached.
One of the traffickers sneered, raising a boot—
And everything went dark.
When Elias woke again, it was to the cold sterility of a hospital room. Fluorescent lights hummed above, and the dull beeping of monitors ticked beside him. Every breath hurt. His body was wrapped in bandages, one arm in a sling.
His throat was dry, lips cracked. But he was alive.
Outside the room, behind a glass window, Rajiv stood with Brielle and Sera. The air between them was heavy.
Rajiv's arms were crossed, his voice quiet but cutting. "Do you really think what you did was right?"
Sera didn't answer. Brielle looked down at the floor.
"He made a mistake. I'm not denying that," Rajiv continued. "But you turned your backs on someone who never stopped caring about you. Who fought for you when no one else could. He threw himself at traffickers without hesitation. Do you even know what he's been through since you left?"
Brielle's eyes shimmered with tears.
"He never stopped looking for you," Rajiv added. "Not for one second. Just think about everything you've been through together. All the memories. The years of friendship. And then weigh it against one moment of anger. Does that really seem balanced to you?"
Inside, Elias lay in bed, unaware they were just outside. He stared at the ceiling, speaking softly to the empty room.
To the sky.
"You there?" he whispered. "I guess I don't know anymore. But if you're listening… thanks for the thunderclap. If it weren't for you, I don't know what I would have done."
His voice broke. "I thought I was ready to lose them. But I wasn't. Not really."
He laughed bitterly. "Guess I never was. I've been pretending I'm fine for so long, I don't know if I even know what fine means anymore."
He paused, staring up at nothing. "I never wanted to hurt them. I just… I wanted them to care like I did. And when they left, I thought I deserved it."
Sera pressed her hand to her mouth, tears falling freely.
"I thought if I said sorry, they'd forgive me," Elias whispered. "But maybe I just said it too late."
Brielle's chest ached with guilt.
"I missed them every day. Every single day."
They pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.
Elias turned his head slightly, surprised to see them there. For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Brielle stepped forward, eyes red.
"We're sorry, Elias," she said softly. "We were hurt, but we didn't see what you were going through. We should have talked to you. We should have listened."
Sera nodded, brushing her tears away. "You never gave up on us. And we… we gave up on you too fast."
Elias swallowed hard. "No," he croaked. "I was the one who pushed you away. I thought I was teaching you something. I was just… angry. And scared. I didn't want to lose you."
"You never really did," Brielle whispered. "We were just… lost. But we're here now."
They sat beside his bed, their hands finding his.
And for the first time in a long time… Elias didn't feel alone.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
The sky above the hospital was beginning to clear.
And far in the distance, beyond the clouds, a single ray of light broke through.
A new beginning.
The warm glow of morning sunlight spilled through the hospital window, bathing Elias's room in soft gold. He stirred slightly, still hazy from the painkillers, but the warm light against his skin was comforting. His breathing, though shallow, was steady. Outside, the sky was painted in hues of rose and amber, as if nature itself had decided to reflect the fragile hope inside the hospital room.
Brielle and Sera remained by his side, barely having moved since the night before. A nurse had come in quietly around dawn, checking Elias's vitals, offering tea and breakfast, which neither of the girls touched. Their thoughts were still caught in the echo of Elias's words the night before.
Brielle sat back in her chair, fingers entwined in her lap. "I still can't believe he went through all that," she murmured.
Sera, eyes red-rimmed and tired, nodded. "And we weren't there. Not once."
Rajiv entered the room a moment later, carrying a bag of breakfast sandwiches and bottled water. "You guys need to eat," he said quietly. "He wouldn't want you to make yourselves sick."
They took the food with weak thanks, unwrapping the sandwiches slowly. Sera managed a bite, then stopped and looked at Elias again.
"He's going to be okay, right?"
Rajiv nodded. "Doctor said he's stable. Just needs time. No internal bleeding, thank God. Fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, some head trauma… but nothing he can't recover from."
Brielle let out a shaky breath. "He didn't even hesitate. Just… ran in."
Rajiv gave a faint smile. "That's Elias. He overthinks everything—except when it comes to the people he cares about."
The day passed slowly, filled with low conversations, hospital noise, and the muted hum of healing. Elias drifted in and out of sleep. Nurses came and went, doctors updated his chart, and the sun eventually gave way to evening.
Elias finally opened his eyes again properly in the late afternoon. His gaze landed on Brielle and Sera instantly. A flicker of confusion crossed his face—then relief.
"You're still here," he whispered, voice rough.
Brielle leaned forward, her hand brushing his. "We're not leaving you again."
Sera nodded. "We're here. As long as you want us."
Tears welled in Elias's eyes, but he blinked them back. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. "For everything. I should've told you what I was going through. Should've trusted you more."
"You made a mistake," Brielle said gently. "So did we. But friendship isn't about being perfect. It's about choosing to stay. And we're choosing you. Again."
Sera took his other hand. "Let's start over. All of us."
For a long moment, the only sound was the steady beeping of the heart monitor.
Then Elias smiled. It wasn't forced, or masked—it was real.
"Yeah," he said. "I'd like that."
Back at college a few days later, word of Elias's heroism had spread. Whispers followed him down corridors, nods of respect, wide-eyed admiration. Professors acknowledged him with rare warmth, and even those who had once kept their distance seemed drawn in.
But Elias didn't care about any of that.
What mattered was walking through the campus with Brielle and Sera again. Laughing—not out of politeness, but because something truly felt funny. Sharing food in the cafeteria. Talking late into the night about anything and everything. Being real again.
It wasn't perfect. Some wounds still lingered, and some days were harder than others. But they were together. And that was more than enough.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and a faint drizzle misted the campus, Elias tilted his head up toward the sky.
"Thanks," he whispered.
Then turned back to his friends, who were waiting with smiles, arms open, voices warm.
And with them, Elias stepped forward into a future he had once thought he'd lost.
Together.
Outside, the raindrops shimmered like blessings from a friend above.
And the sky listened, as always.
Elias sat on the rooftop of the dorm building at one night, legs dangling over the edge. The breeze was cool, rustling through the trees below. The stars blinked faintly above, and the moon was a silver slice of peace.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the messages he had saved—the ones he had never sent. Messages to Brielle. To Sera. The apologies he had written in a dozen different ways but had never dared to say aloud.
He selected them all.
Deleted them.
He didn't need them anymore.
Behind him, footsteps echoed softly. Brielle and Sera climbed onto the rooftop, each holding a cup of hot chocolate.
"Figured we'd find you here," Brielle said, handing him a cup.
Sera grinned. "We come bearing cocoa and friendship."
Elias chuckled and took the drink. "I'm lucky to have you two."
"We're lucky to have you back," Brielle replied.
They sat in silence, sipping slowly, watching the stars.
"I think," Elias said after a long while, "I finally understand what it means to be strong. It's not just about fighting or solving problems. It's about letting people in. Even when it's hard."
Sera leaned her head on his shoulder. "Then you're the strongest person we know."
And Elias, for the first time in what felt like forever, felt whole.
Years had passed since the night the thunder struck true, guiding him to the dock. Since the day his body broke to buy just enough time. Since the hours when friendships cracked finally started to heal.
Elias was older now—not by much in years, but his eyes told a story no calendar could measure. The shadows under them weren't just from sleepless nights of studying or work. They were records of pain, of growth, of stories lived through rather than merely read.
He sat at a quiet desk in a small, sunlit room above a bustling bookstore where he worked part-time. In front of him sat an open journal—its leather-bound cover aged, its pages worn, some even lightly smudged with rain. Not rainwater, but tears. He had always been careful with it. This journal was never for reminders or to-do lists. It was for something far more personal.
A story.
The story of a boy who once smiled so brightly everyone believed he was fine.
The story of a boy who made a mistake, lost his two most precious people, and fought not with fists but with heart to earn them back.
But more than that—it was the story of the sky.
Not the scientific one. Not the meteorological marvel full of pressure systems and humidity percentages. But the one Elias had always seen as a companion. A listener.
He remembered vividly the first time he noticed it. After a classmate pointed out how the rain kept coming on days Elias seemed down, he had tested it—crying, laughing, faking, and finally breaking. And each time his emotions were real, the sky responded.
Coincidence, maybe. But he had never treated it like one. The world gave everyone something—some had people, some had purpose. Elias had the sky.
He had written the story to tell others that the sky was alive.
Not with a voice. Not with a face. But with a presence. A patience. A kind of quiet that answered you, not in words, but in reflection.
He had poured every chapter of his pain, growth, and eventual healing into it. About Brielle. About Sera. About the night he thought he would die. About the morning he realized he was still loved.
And at the end of the story, he had written:
"I used to think I had no one. That the world was just full of soundless days and people too busy to care. But when I cried, the sky cried too. Maybe it was just me. Or maybe, the sky didn't want to leave anyone alone either."
He closed the journal gently and placed it in an envelope. On the front, he wrote in bold, uneven letters:
*To Everyone Who's Ever Felt Alone.*
He took a deep breath, sealed it, and walked down to the bookstore's front counter. The owner, a kind woman who had once caught him scribbling notes during his shift and asked if he was a writer, smiled as he handed it to her.
"Is this the one?" she asked.
Elias nodded. "Yeah. It's time."
They would print it. Share it. Maybe some would read it. Maybe some wouldn't. But for Elias, that didn't matter.
Because the story had already done what it needed to do.
He had friends now—true friends. He had family that understood his silence and smiled at his laughter. And more than anything, he had given his only companion—his invisible friend in the clouds—a story.
So that the sky wouldn't feel lonely either.
And just as he stepped outside, a cool breeze brushed past him. The clouds parted gently. A single beam of light kissed his face.
Elias smiled.
"I know," he whispered. "You were listening too."
END