After the End

Chapter 5: What We Don't Say

We had spent years together in the ruins of the world, working on our plan like it was the only thing that mattered. At first, we were full of energy and determination. The formula was our hope, the key to escaping this nightmare. With all the knowledge we had, we were sure we could make it work. But reality doesn’t bend to hope alone.

No matter what we tried, it always failed. Weeks turned into months, and those months slowly bled into years. Every time we thought we were close, something would go wrong. The calculations would fall apart, the ingredients would react in ways we didn’t expect, and our excitement would crash back into the reality of our failure.

There were times when I wanted to scream at the universe for being so unforgiving. I knew Five felt the same, even if he didn’t show it. He never let his frustration spill out, not like I did. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened or the way he threw himself back into work, always pushing forward no matter how many times the world seemed to mock us. His determination was relentless, and yet, with each passing year, a quiet understanding grew between us. We were running out of time.

But it wasn’t just the formula that had changed between us. Somewhere in those endless years, when the world outside stayed broken and hopeless, something else had started to grow. My feelings for Five had become harder to ignore, creeping in like an unwelcome but undeniable truth. I wasn’t sure when it happened exactly, but I knew that every time I looked at him, it was harder to focus on the task at hand. I found myself watching him longer than I should, studying the way he moved, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the rare moments when his guard slipped and he looked almost... human.

But I couldn’t say anything. How could I? Five was the only person left in this broken world, and he was consumed by the mission to find a way out. It wasn’t the time to be thinking about feelings. Especially not feelings like these. And yet, I couldn’t help it. Every time he was near, the weight of my silence grew heavier.

We worked together, side by side, without ever speaking of the truth that hung between us. Neither of us was cheesy or sentimental; we weren’t the type to blurt out declarations of love like characters in some old romance novel. But the connection was there, growing stronger with each failure, with each moment of shared struggle.

There were times when Five would look at me, and I’d see something in his eyes—something deeper than just the exhaustion of our failed attempts. But he never said anything, and neither did I. It was like we had an unspoken agreement to keep things the way they were, as if acknowledging the feelings between us would somehow break the fragile balance we had managed to create.

And so, we kept going. Every day, the same routine. We’d wake up, eat whatever scraps we could find, and dive back into the formula. We experimented, we theorized, we argued, and we started over again. It was frustrating, exhausting, but it was also comforting in its own way. This was what we had, and as much as it hurt to fail over and over again, I knew I wasn’t alone.

But with each passing year, the silence between us became harder to bear. There were moments when I thought I might just blurt it out, tell him how I felt. But then I’d see the look of concentration on his face, the way he was still so focused on the task at hand, and I’d swallow the words back down.

The world might have ended, but that didn’t mean we had the luxury of feelings. Not when we still hadn’t found a way out.

And yet, there were times when I thought Five might feel the same. It was in the way he lingered just a little too long when handing me something, his fingers brushing against mine. Or the way his voice softened, ever so slightly, when he talked to me. But nothing ever came of it. We were both too stubborn, too cautious to break the unspoken rule we had set for ourselves.

As the years stretched on, we became closer in the only way we knew how—by working together, by surviving together. And while the words went unspoken, I knew that somewhere, buried deep beneath the surface, Five felt it too. The connection between us wasn’t something that needed to be said out loud. It was there, in every glance, in every moment we shared in that broken world.

One day, after what felt like another pointless experiment, I sat down next to Five, exhausted. My body ached, and the failure of yet another attempt weighed heavy on my chest.

“We’ll get it right eventually,” Five said quietly, not looking at me.

I nodded, staring at the charred remains of our latest experiment. “Yeah... eventually.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thick with everything we weren’t saying. I wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter if we never got the formula right. I wanted to say that these moments, as hard as they were, were enough for me because I had him by my side. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The words caught in my throat, heavy and awkward, like they didn’t belong in this world.

Instead, I looked at him, really looked at him. His face had changed over the years—not drastically, but enough for me to notice. He was still the same sharp, driven person he had been when we first met, but there was something softer about him now. His eyes didn’t seem as guarded, and for the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, the walls he had built around himself were starting to crack.

But before I could say anything, Five stood up abruptly, brushing the dust off his clothes. “I’m going to check the perimeter,” he said, his voice clipped. He didn’t look at me as he left.

I watched him go, my heart sinking. He had always been like this—pulling away just when it seemed like we might get closer. It was as if he was afraid of letting himself feel anything, afraid that if he let his guard down, the world would fall apart all over again.

I couldn’t blame him. I felt the same way most of the time.

Still, as the years passed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were both running out of excuses. The world was already broken. What more did we have to lose by being honest with each other?

But we never said it. Not in words, anyway.

We kept working, kept surviving. The days bled into each other, and the silence between us stretched longer with each passing year. Yet, despite everything, I couldn’t imagine facing this world with anyone else but Five.

Maybe one day, we’d find the courage to say what we both knew. Maybe.

But until then, we had the silence. And somehow, that was enough. For now.